Defend and Betray
by djinmi
Summary: Immortals exist among mankind. A secret organization of Watchers, sworn to observe and record, but never interfere, keeps track of them, but a radical splinter group threatens to destroy the Immortals.
1. Prologue - What's My Lesson?

"I find it kind of sad

The dreams in which I'm dying are the best I've ever had"

"Mad World" - Tears For Fears

**Gurinder Bhati**

Date: 24 January 1999

To: Gurinder Bhati

From: Devon Sather

CC: Vanessa Goldman

**RE: QFS Updates - January**

As per our conversation of 23 January, I am resubmitting January QFS updates for the following subjects:

Ashton, David

Dublin, Darren

Fairbanks, Jonathan

Faaris, Omeir

Locke, Vincent

O'Banian, Siobhan

Ulrich, Charles

Please ensure that **all **electronic file information is checked for accuracy/updating. As per protocol, these QFS forms are to be shredded **immediately **once data has been updated on ImStat.

As discussed, during any future absences from your desk all loose paperwork must be locked in filing cabinets and your computer screen closed and passcoded. There is to be no exception or deviation from this. Failure to follow security protocol will result in action being taken against you which may include reprimand, demotion and/or termination.

Should the original QFS forms, which were submitted to you in hard copy on January 19, 1999, be located, please advise me immediately.

As discussed, a copy of this email is being placed on your personnel file.

D. Sather Regional Director

IC European Sector

This email and any files transmitted with it are intended solely for the use of the individual or entity to whom they are transmitted. If you have received this email in error please notify the sender immediately. This message contains confidential information and is intended only for the individual(s) named. If you are not the named addressee you should not disseminate, distribute or copy this email. To do so could result in legal action being taken against you.

19 January 1999

QUICK FACTS SHEET

All QFS must be reviewed monthly. Changes must be submitted to ImStat.

COMMON NAME / REFERENCE: David Ashton

CURRENT ALIAS: David Ashton

Original Name: Rusa

Current Status: ALIVE

Date of Birth (if known): Circa 2031 BCE

Place of Birth (if known): Knossos, Minoa

Date of Death (if known): Summer 2001 BCE

Cause of Death (if known): Drowning

Age at First Death (if known): 30

Current Age (approximate): 4026

PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION (update when / as necessary)

Gender: Male

Race: Caucasian

Height (metric / imperial): 175 cm / 69"

Weight (metric / imperial): 72 kg / 159 lbs

Hair Color (current): Blond

Eye Color: Blue

Scars / Tattoos / Piercings (Detailed Description): None

CURRENT STATUS (update when / as necessary)

Current Residence: Atlanta, Georgia

Current Citizenship: Dual Citizenship: United States / United Kingdom

Current Occupation: Stock market analyst / trader

Education (if applicable / known): Ph.D-Psychometrics (Cambridge)(1990), Ph.D-Asian History (Tokyo)(1949),

Ph.D-Russian Literature (Moscow)(1927), MBA (London School of Economics)(1983)

Marital Status: Widowed

ACTIVITY (update when / as necessary)

Number of Confirmed Immortal Kills: 2,073

Last Confirmed Kill: 21 April 1998

Activity Assessment: Low

Threat Assessment: Low

THREAT ASSESSMENT KEY (Review Monthly)

**Low**: 0 – 1 kill in the last 90 days / Watchers not aware, no threat.

**Guarded:** 2 kills in the last 90 days / Watchers aware, no threat.

**High:** 2 kills in the last 90 days / Watchers aware, some threat.

**Severe:** 4+ kills in the last 90 days / Watchers aware, threat.

Assessments of High or Severe must be brought to the attention of the Regional Director as soon as possible.

19 January 1999

QUICK FACTS SHEET

All QFS must be reviewed monthly. Changes must be submitted to ImStat.

COMMON NAME / REFERENCE: Darren Dublin

CURRENT ALIAS: Danny Cafferty

Original Name: Darragh O'Dubh-linn

Current Status: ALIVE

Date of Birth (if known): 985

Place of Birth (if known): Dublin, Republic of Ireland

Date of Death (if known): Winter 1013

Cause of Death (if known): 28

Age at First Death (if known): Injuries sustained in battle

Current Age (approximate): 1,014

PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION (update when / as necessary)

Gender: Male

Race: Caucasian

Height (metric / imperial): 168 cm / 66 "

Weight (metric / imperial): 68 kg / 150 lbs

Hair Color (current): Black

Eye Color: Brown

Scars / Tattoos / Piercings (Detailed Description): -vertical scar, 7", ribcage R -burn, 1" dia., thigh-R, inside tattoos: -celtic cross, 3" h chest-L -Chinese symbol, 2" dia, ankle-L, inside -Aztec symbol, entire top of foot-R, -"Dualgas, Oineach, Tír"(Duty, Honour, Country), bicep- R, -triskele, 1" , hip-front R -piercing: - ear-L

CURRENT STATUS (update when / as necessary)

Current Residence: Almeria, Spain

Current Citizenship: Dual Citizenship, Ireland and United Kingdom

Current Occupation: Printing Press Operator

Education (if applicable / known): Bachelor's Degree in Medieval Literature (Cambridge) (1957) Masters in Irish History, (Trinity College, Dublin) (1993)

Marital Status: Single

ACTIVITY (update when / as necessary)

Number of Confirmed Immortal Kills: 942

Last Confirmed Kill: 08 October 1998

Activity Assessment: Low

Threat Assessment: Guarded

THREAT ASSESSMENT KEY (Review Monthly)

**Low**: 0 – 1 kill in the last 90 days / Watchers not aware, no threat.

**Guarded:** 2 kills in the last 90 days / Watchers aware, no threat.

**High:** 2 kills in the last 90 days / Watchers aware, some threat.

**Severe:** 4+ kills in the last 90 days / Watchers aware, threat.

Assessments of High or Severe must be brought to the attention of the Regional Director as soon as possible.

19 January 1999

QUICK FACTS SHEET

All QFS must be reviewed monthly. Changes must be submitted to ImStat.

COMMON NAME / REFERENCE: Omeir Faaris

CURRENT ALIAS: Omeir Faaris

Original Name: Husravah

Current Status: ALIVE

Date of Birth (if known): 2414 BCE

Place of Birth (if known): Persia

Date of Death (if known): 2391 BCE

Cause of Death (if known): Spear through the leg, blood loss

Age at First Death (if known): 24

Current Age (approximate): 4,412

PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION (update when / as necessary)

Gender: Male

Race: Persian

Height (metric / imperial): 210 cm / 82"

Weight (metric / imperial): 135 kg / 297 lbs

Hair Color (current): Black

Eye Color: Brown

Scars / Tattoos / Piercings (Detailed Description): Golden stud, L ear.

CURRENT STATUS (update when / as necessary)

Current Residence: Minsk, Belarus

Current Citizenship: Belarussian

Current Occupation: Professional body builder

Education (if applicable / known): Masters degrees in ancient European and Middle Eastern art and archaeology

Marital Status: Single

ACTIVITY (update when / as necessary)

Number of Confirmed Immortal Kills: 3,142

Last Confirmed Kill: 17 August 1998

Activity Assessment: Low

Threat Assessment: Guarded

THREAT ASSESSMENT KEY (Review Monthly)

**Low**: 0 – 1 kill in the last 90 days / Watchers not aware, no threat.

**Guarded:** 2 kills in the last 90 days / Watchers aware, no threat.

**High:** 2 kills in the last 90 days / Watchers aware, some threat.

**Severe:** 4+ kills in the last 90 days / Watchers aware, threat.

Assessments of High or Severe must be brought to the attention of the Regional Director as soon as possible.

19 January 1999

QUICK FACTS SHEET

All QFS must be reviewed monthly. Changes must be submitted to ImStat.

COMMON NAME / REFERENCE: Jonathan Christopher Fairbanks

CURRENT ALIAS: Jonathan Ashton

Original Name: Jonatan Cristofre Fayrebancs

Current Status: ALIVE

Date of Birth (if known): 06 June 1198

Place of Birth (if known): London, England

Date of Death (if known): 12 October 1212

Cause of Death (if known): Skull fracture

Age at First Death (if known): 14

Current Age (approximate): 801

PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION (update when / as necessary)

Gender: Male

Race: Caucasian

Height (metric / imperial): 155 cm / 61"

Weight (metric / imperial): 45 kg / 99 lbs

Hair Color (current): Black

Eye Color: Brown

Scars / Tattoos / Piercings (Detailed Description): -horizontal scar, 2", above eye-L -scar, V-shaped, 4", back, upper shoulder-L -scar, palm, L, Algerian coin

CURRENT STATUS (update when / as necessary)

Current Residence: Atlanta, Georgia

Current Citizenship: Dual Citizenship: United States / United Kingdom

Current Occupation: Home school student

Education (if applicable / known): Official: Middle school. Actual: master's degrees in classical history, literature, linguistics, and religious studies.

Marital Status: Single

ACTIVITY (update when / as necessary)

Number of Confirmed Immortal Kills: 789

Last Confirmed Kill: 04 May 1998

Activity Assessment: Low

Threat Assessment: Low

THREAT ASSESSMENT KEY (Review Monthly)

**Low**: 0 – 1 kill in the last 90 days / Watchers not aware, no threat.

**Guarded:** 2 kills in the last 90 days / Watchers aware, no threat.

**High:** 2 kills in the last 90 days / Watchers aware, some threat.

**Severe:** 4+ kills in the last 90 days / Watchers aware, threat.

Assessments of High or Severe must be brought to the attention of the Regional Director as soon as possible.

19 January 1999

QUICK FACTS SHEET

All QFS must be reviewed monthly. Changes must be submitted to ImStat.

COMMON NAME / REFERENCE: Vincent Locke

CURRENT ALIAS: Vince Lockyer

Original Name: Vincente Atslēdznieks

Current Status: ALIVE

Date of Birth (if known): Summer 1528

Place of Birth (if known): Latvia

Date of Death (if known): Winter 1560

Cause of Death (if known): Injuries sustained in battle, Siege of Pskov

Age at First Death (if known): 32

Current Age (approximate): 471

PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION (update when / as necessary)

Gender: Male

Race: Caucasian

Height (metric / imperial): 183 cm / 72"

Weight (metric / imperial): 86 kg / 190 lbs

Hair Color (current): Black

Eye Color: Blue

Scars / Tattoos / Piercings (Detailed Description): None

CURRENT STATUS (update when / as necessary)

Current Residence: Kalispell, Montana

Current Citizenship: United States

Current Occupation: Handyman, Blue Bird Motel

Education (if applicable / known): None

Marital Status: Single

ACTIVITY (update when / as necessary)

Number of Confirmed Immortal Kills: 26

Last Confirmed Kill: 04 May 1976

Activity Assessment: Low

Threat Assessment: Low

THREAT ASSESSMENT KEY (Review Monthly)

**Low**: 0 – 1 kill in the last 90 days / Watchers not aware, no threat.

**Guarded:** 2 kills in the last 90 days / Watchers aware, no threat.

**High:** 2 kills in the last 90 days / Watchers aware, some threat.

**Severe:** 4+ kills in the last 90 days / Watchers aware, threat.

Assessments of High or Severe must be brought to the attention of the Regional Director as soon as possible.

19 January 1999

QUICK FACTS SHEET

All QFS must be reviewed monthly. Changes must be submitted to ImStat.

COMMON NAME / REFERENCE: Siobhan O'Banian

CURRENT ALIAS: Siobhan O'Banian

Original Name: Siobhan Ellis O'Banian

Current Status: ALIVE

Date of Birth (if known): 17 March 1945

Place of Birth (if known): Belfast, Northern Ireland

Date of Death (if known): 05 October 1974

Cause of Death (if known): Injuries sustained in a bomb blast

Age at First Death (if known): 29

Current Age (approximate): 54

PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION (update when / as necessary)

Gender: Female

Race: Caucasian

Height (metric / imperial): 157 cm / 62"

Weight (metric / imperial): 48 kg / 106 lbs

Hair Color (current): Red

Eye Color: Green

Scars / Tattoos / Piercings (Detailed Description): None

CURRENT STATUS (update when / as necessary)

Current Residence: Isle of Skye, Northern Isles, Scotland

Current Citizenship: Republic of Ireland

Current Occupation: Freelance Photographer

Education (if applicable / known): High School

Marital Status: Single

ACTIVITY (update when / as necessary)

Number of Confirmed Immortal Kills: 16

Last Confirmed Kill: 27 December 1998

Activity Assessment: Guarded

Threat Assessment: High

THREAT ASSESSMENT KEY (Review Monthly)

**Low**: 0 – 1 kill in the last 90 days / Watchers not aware, no threat.

**Guarded:** 2 kills in the last 90 days / Watchers aware, no threat.

**High:** 2 kills in the last 90 days / Watchers aware, some threat.

**Severe:** 4+ kills in the last 90 days / Watchers aware, threat.

Assessments of High or Severe must be brought to the attention of the Regional Director as soon as possible.

19 January 1999

QUICK FACTS SHEET

All QFS must be reviewed monthly. Changes must be submitted to ImStat.

COMMON NAME / REFERENCE: Charles Ulrich

CURRENT ALIAS: Charles Ulrich

Original Name: Charles Wolfgang Ulrich

Current Status: ALIVE

Date of Birth (if known): 10 September 1842

Place of Birth (if known): Dresden, Germany

Date of Death (if known): 03 July 1866

Cause of Death (if known): Killed in battle

Age at First Death (if known): 23

Current Age (approximate): 157

PHYSICAL DESCRIPTION (update when / as necessary)

Gender: Male

Race: Caucasian

Height (metric / imperial): 185 cm / 73"

Weight (metric / imperial): 82 kg / 181 lbs

Hair Color (current): Brown

Eye Color: Blue

Scars / Tattoos / Piercings (Detailed Description): None

CURRENT STATUS (update when / as necessary)

Current Residence: Berlin, Germany

Current Citizenship: Germany

Current Occupation: CEO, Flytech

Education (if applicable / known): Ph.D in Aeronautical Engineering (Brandenburgische Technische Universität, 1974)

Marital Status: Widowed

ACTIVITY (update when / as necessary)

Number of Confirmed Immortal Kills: 87

Last Confirmed Kill: 08 January 1999

Activity Assessment: Guarded

Threat Assessment: Low

THREAT ASSESSMENT KEY (Review Monthly)

**Low**: 0 – 1 kill in the last 90 days / Watchers not aware, no threat.

**Guarded:** 2 kills in the last 90 days / Watchers aware, no threat.

**High:** 2 kills in the last 90 days / Watchers aware, some threat.

**Severe:** 4+ kills in the last 90 days / Watchers aware, threat.

Assessments of High or Severe must be brought to the attention of the Regional Director as soon as possible.


	2. Night Draws Near

**DEFEND AND BETRAY**

**ACT 1**

**ENGLAND**

Author's Note: This story is an amalgamation of the work of several writers compiled into one massive document. It originally began in 1999 and stalled sometime in 2000. What had been written was additions to an online roleplaying game and, taken by themselves, did not make a lot of sense. I got permission recently (in 2019) to restart the story and add significant portions to it in order for the pieces to make more sense as a stand-alone story. I have done my best to keep with the original intent of the story's original author (although it does have a lot of my own creative content, as well).

For the sake of originality, all references to canon Highlander characters has been removed and new names have been added. The old references had no real bearing on the story whatsoever anyway and the slight edits I have made have made the story fit more with my version of the Highlander universe. You will notice these differences as you read for they are quite significant.

Except for English, some German and some Spanish (and only smatterings of those), I do not speak the languages depicted in this story. Any mistakes are those of Google Translate and the intended meaning is shown in parentheses (unless left out for plot reasons).

When not used to display words in foreign languages or to show emphasis, any phrases or sentences shown in italics indicate the thoughts of a character.

There is also a good bit of Middle English mixed into the dialogue at one point in this story. I don't speak that language (and it is pretty much another language) either and have used in the best way I can manage. If there is anyone out there who is more knowledgeable in it who wishes to offer tips, I am open to them. When I have such dialogue, I again will put the modern English meaning in parentheses.

xxxxxxxxxx

Night Draws Near

"Rumors speak of war, all the nations  
Turmoil in the streets, tribulations  
Now it's plain to see  
All the prophecies are taking place."

"Curtain of Iron" - Kansas

03 August 1999  
Bromley, England  
The Barrel and Horn

Max Correll was scared. Perhaps scared was too light a word to use. He was terrified. And the alcohol wasn't helping one bit. Right now, though, he couldn't give a shit. Maybe, just maybe, another round would give him the courage he needed to go out and face the light of day.

_Besides,_ he thought,_ you're already hundreds of kilometers away from the scene. You should be safe, right?_

The very thought was enough to make him scoff. Smirking darkly, he glanced at the blue tattoo on his left wrist. It was a bird-like cross enclosed by two circles. Thirteen blue dots ran between the concentric circles. Correll shook his head.

_No, there is no escaping them. They're just like us…because they are us._

Correll caught the bartender's attention with a slight wave of his hand. "Another pint of stout, please," he requested softly. "After that, I'll go."

The bartender nodded and drew another pint. He set it in front of his patron along with the tab for his eight pints.

"Need me to call you a lift, mate?" the barkeep asked, his eyes raised in genuine concern.

"No thanks," replied Correll. "I'm walking anyway. I won't be going far."

The barkeep nodded again. "If you decide you're too wobbly to make it, take this number and call for a ride. These are good blokes and they'll come get you quickly. They won't stiff you on the rates, either." He slid a slip of paper across the bar.

"Thank you," said Correll, accepting the paper. "I'll do that."

Correll sipped his pint slowly, savoring the bitterness of the drink. As he sat on the stool, his elbows on the bar, he eyed his palms and fingertips. He turned his hands to inspect the back of them. In his mind, for he knew that was where the malady resided, he still saw the stains which had been there from a few days earlier. They couldn't still be there now. He had washed his hands repeatedly to remove them. He smiled to himself as he recalled a line from his drama class at university.

"Out, out, damn spot," he whispered.

"What's that?" asked the bartender, looking up from washing a few dishes at a small sink.

Correll flexed his fingers and shook his head. "It's nothing. Just a little Shakespeare for an addled brain."

The bartender grinned. "There are worse things than recalling MacBeth after a few pints, mate."

Correll chuckled and stood up. "Yeah, I guess there are." He looked at the bartender, about to ask for directions to the loo. The barkeep, used to the expression, pointed. Correll nodded his thanks and ambled away, taking a package wrapped in brown paper with him.

He returned a few minutes later with a sigh of relief. Picking up his pint, he downed the remainder in three quick gulps and set the glass back on the bar.

"I think it's time for me to head out now," he announced.

"I hope you have some glasses for that sun. It's quite bright out there." The bartender motioned toward the nearby door. Correll grinned as he produced a pair from his shirt pocket. He got a thumbs-up.

Correll drew the tab closer to him as he pulled out his wallet. With a contented nod, he pulled a fifty-pound note from inside and dropped it on the bar. He furrowed his brow, thinking a moment. He dug into his wallet again and added another tenner to the tab.

"And two for yourself, my good man."

The bartender grinned. "Appreciate it." Correll waved and turned to the door. As he left, the bartender wondered briefly where his package was.

Slipping on his sunglasses, Correll pushed his way into the mid-day sun. His grin lasted only as long as his presence in the pub. Now he had to worry about other things. He shoved his hands into his trousers pockets and turned south down High Street, trying his best to appear casual. Behind his shades, his eyes were scanning the thoroughfare in every direction.

Turning west onto Church Road, he removed his hands from his pockets and let his arms swing loosely. He thought about whistling to add to the appearance of a relaxed man, but decided against it. He just walked slowly. To his consternation, he saw nothing out of the ordinary.

_Damn it, that's the problem. We're all trained not to be seen. They could be out they or they might not and I'd never know it. Our training never included anything about how to pick up on surveillance, only how to do it ourselves._

Correll thought about the spy novels he'd read and the movies he's seen, all those tidbits about using reflective surfaces to spot people following a person without obviously turning around to do it. He decided to give it a try and slowed his gait to stop in front of a newspaper vending machine. Bending slightly to appear as if he were reading the headline, he peered into the window behind the machine. He saw nothing of a telltale nature to give away a follower.

_Naturally,_ he thought again,_ because we're taught how to counter such things as that. You keep walking when someone does something like this. You don't stop and glare at him._

Still trying to act natural, Correll shook his head as if deciding not to buy the paper after all and stood erect. He continued on his trek west, still racking his brain for how to spot the potential shadow.

_Or am I just being paranoid? There's always that chance._

Rounding a curve on the road, he glanced left at Saint Peter and Saint Paul's Parish Church. The sight brought another cold grin to his face and he put his hands in his pockets again.

_Wouldn't it be nice if I could seek sanctuary in there like the people I watch? Sadly, such a thing would do me no good. I'd find no safety there._

Crossing the intersection of Edison Road and Church Road, Correll kept walking. He found himself impatient now. Why, he didn't know. He didn't have that far to go. He was only a few minutes walk from where he had rented a one-room flat on 1 Glassmill Lane. He clucked his tongue at his own silliness and allowed himself a moment to reflect. As his thoughts wandered, he absentmindedly scratched the tattoo on his left wrist.

Max Correll was thirty-eight years old. For the last nine years, he had been part of a secretive worldwide organization responsible for surveillance and recording information on the lives of a particular group of people. Not celebrities or politicians, though sometimes the organization's people of interest strayed into those categories, but something far more elusive, more interesting perhaps. Max Correll and his cohorts surveilled Immortals.

Correll had laughed off the concept of immortality when it had first been broached to him, just as many of his peers had. How preposterous. This was the stuff of fairy tales, right? But he had read excerpts from the organization's chronicles and eventually seen the people himself. It was very much a reality. Immortals existed. They didn't glow in the dark or fly or have any other magical-type powers, except a supremely enhanced ability to recover from injuries, but they existed. Correll and others like him, who called themselves Watchers, had accepted the calling to observe these people and record the facts of their lives.

"Why?" he had asked when he had first been approached to do the job. "Why observe them if they'll live forever?" Because, he had been told, right now, they keep themselves a secret from mortals. There is a legend among them that, at some point, there will be only one of them left. At that time, the world needs to know that Immortals existed.

Only one left?

Yes. It is only a legend. Many Immortals, in fact, do not even believe in it at all, but there are enough who do and that is enough to keep them all driven to fight for survival.

"Wait a moment," he had countered. "What do you mean by fight?"

Correll's mentor had smiled patiently and explained that while Immortals could potentially live forever, they could, in fact, be killed. The most commonly known way to do so was by decapitation, but there were other lesser known ways. Since beheading was so well known among the Immortals, it had become accepted as the traditional way of doing so. The vast majority of Immortals were well trained in the use of bladed weapons in order to defend themselves against the attacks of others of their kind.

"How do they even know if another Immortal is around?" Correll had asked. His mentor had told him that, somehow, they are able to sense each other's presence once they are within a certain distance of one another. The distance seemed to vary between ten and fifty meters, depending greatly upon the age or the power, or both, of the Immortal. No one knew for sure. Regardless, they were able to identify each other once they were close enough.

It was here that Correll's mentor had stopped and, with another grin, had added a proviso. Since carrying swords around was not an accepted practice in the modern age, duels between Immortals was more of a "by appointment sort of thing," he had said. This statement had caused a great deal of confusion in Correll's mind. Choosing a time and place to meet someone in order to duke it out with a sword and chop off someone's head…or lose your own? Ridiculous. But he had seen it numerous times himself over the years. It was very much true.

The sword duels were actually not the most interesting part of it all. It was what happened after the beheading. None of the Watchers really had an explanation for it, but they all said it was a phenomenal sight. It was called the Quickening.

The simplest way to describe a Quickening is an intense localized electrical storm. It starts out as a greyish glow at the neck stump of the dead Immortal and soon grows into powerful bolts of current emanating from the defeated Immortal's neck. Some of the bolts scatter randomly around the area of the duel, destroying items, breaking windows, or setting things ablaze. Most, though, seek out the Immortal who took the head of the dead Immortal and slam into him. While this does not harm the victorious Immortal, there is either a great deal of pain or some other type of sensory overload taking place as a result, as evidenced by the uncontrolled screaming of the victor.

There were many theories about what the Quickening was. Some said it was a transfer of power from one Immortal to another. Others thought it was a transfer of knowledge and ability. Still others theorized it was a transmission of life essence. There were several camps within the Watchers, each with their own die-hard ways of thought. None had any solid evidence, only conjecture. All they knew was the Immortals placed a great deal of value on their deaths being in the presence of one another so their Quickenings could be transferred to one another. There were many historical examples of solitary Immortals losing their heads and Quickenings not taking place at all.

Correll stopped his daydreaming. He was at the curve where Church Road became Glassmill Lane. A meander to the left and he would have only a few more minutes of walking to reach his flat. His gaze shifted lazily to the Bromley War Memorial twenty meters in front of him. It had been built to commemorate the seven hundred sixty-nine local men who died in the First World War and the four hundred seventy-six members of the armed forces and civilians who lost their lives in the Second World War. Correll shrugged. He could at least do it the respect of stopping there for a few minutes.

Correll had always enjoyed sculpture. He had, in fact, frequently been known to visit museums and spend hours admiring the work of the great sculptors of history. He had been fortunate a few years ago when he had been assigned to follow an Immortal named Dobromil Biskup who shared a similar interest. Sadly, those good years had ended when, eight months ago in Hungary, Biskup had drawn blades against an Arab Immortal named Aadam Farid. Biskup had not fared well in that duel and Correll needed another assignment.

_If only he had won that battle. I would not be here right now, knowing what I know. _

_No, don't be a coward, Max. What you saw there is important and Walker must know about it._

_Even if it gets me killed?_

_Well, yes, even that._

_The die is already cast, then. I just have to see how it lands._

"A beautiful sculpture, isn't it?"

Correll started visibly as the voice behind him interrupted his inner dialogue. He turned with a gasp. The face he beheld did not bring pleasure to his own. Sharp Germanic features grinned back at Correll beneath a black fedora hat. The grin itself was ice cold.

"Now how did I miss the sight of that damn fedora in the crowd, Werner?" asked Correll, his shoulders slumping. He had never heard the man approach.

Werner Heinz continued to grin. "You already know the answer to that question, Max."

Correll nodded. "Yes, we had the same teacher," he said with a sigh. Looking to his right in the direction of his flat, he chuckled softly.

"I guess I won't get to finish _From Russia, With Love_ tonight after all, will I? Grant and Bond were just having dinner on the train."

Heinz shook his head. Reaching into his right trouser pocket, he withdrew a switchblade knife and hit the button to release the blade.

"Ah, that was a good one. I could tell you the rest, if you like, for old times sake. You know, before you go. Besides, what are old friends for?"

"That would be nice. Thank you, Werner."

xxxxxxxxxx

08 August 1999

Edinburgh, Scotland

The setting was the complete opposite of a B-horror movie script. Despite the intent of the four men in the room, there were no dark shadows or cobwebs, no creaking doors or cracked, drafty windows. Though the room was small, it was comfortable and the lighting was warm. There were cigars and bourbon for those who partook of it. Three of the four men did while the fourth chose bottled lager with his tobacco. Despite their differences in drink preferences, though, all agreed that it was a time to celebrate.

A tall man with red hair raised his glass to the others. Their hushed conversation quieted at his motion.

"Gentlemen," he said with an air of formality, the very slightest trace of a German accent tinting his speech. "We stand on the edge of a historical precipice." He indicated the European map on the table around which they sat. "In a few days, we will unleash our forces upon a menace which threatens all of mankind, the scourge of the Immortal race. We will take the first step necessary in eliminating that threat. It is the three of you and those you command which are making this event even the remotest of possibilities after so many years of preparation. I thank you for your dedication to this cause. And now, I raise a toast to all of you."

With those words, Alan Ottenbreit, lowered his glass and brought it to his smiling lips, drinking deeply from it. He sighed with pleasure. The other three followed suit. The one man who drank from a bottle, a muscular blond man with a crew cut, spread his arms wide.

"Thank you, Mr. Ottenbreit. I'm sure I speak for us all when I say we are all proud to be a part of this campaign." The American paused briefly to sip from his lager. "I only have one slight reservation in it all. Call it my prior career rearing its head, but I just want to make sure we've thought of all possible repercussions of our actions and that we've prepared suitable countermeasures for them."

"Calm down, Adam," soothed Harlan Earnshaw in his smoothest Irish tone. "There's no need to act like a U.S. Ranger every time we start an operation. We've put four years of work into preparing for this. I'm sure nothing will go wrong with it now."

"The first casualty of any operation when in contact with the enemy is the plan," stated Matzel dryly. "A good question we should consider, and I apologize for not bringing it up until today, is whether we should begin before the troops have all finished Harlan's training program." He took another pull from his bottle for emphasis.

Ottenbreit nodded. "Don't be so quick to judge, Harlan," he countered. "Adam has a point. Just a few days ago, we had a mishap at this very location."

"What sort of mishap?" asked Emilio Gironelli, a slender, swarthy Italian.

Ottenbreit reached for the bourbon bottle and refilled his glass as he spoke. "One of the men working with us, Max Correll, turned out to be a plant, a double-agent. He took out one of our assets, Brian Harrison, and disappeared on the first of the month."

"My God," replied Gironelli. "Without Harrison, a significant part of our operation is crippled."

Ottenbreit waved a hand while picking up his glass with the other. "I've already considered a fix to that problem. And Werner Heinz has dealt with the issue of Max Correll for us. This does, however, prove the point Adam was making. We need backup plans to the actions of our enemies and to any other problems we may face. In light of that suggestion, as we enjoy our cigars, let us review our plans one last time before we release the hounds upon Europe."

xxxxxxxxxx

09 August 1999

Westminster, England

Devon Sather tapped his finger on his desk, his frustration growing. He was the Regional Director for Europe, damn it all, and he had still been put on hold to speak to the big man, Michael Walker, the Executive Director of the Watchers.

_It's not like I can get any higher in this organization. Why can't I call him directly rather than going through his fucking secretary?_

Sather knew what it was, really. Though Walker had never said it himself, the fact that Sather was twenty-six and had become a Regional Director after only four years in the Watcher organization had angered a lot of the old timers. In fact, after having been a Field Watcher for three years and an Area Director for one, he had skipped the role of District Director - that of managing Watchers in one or more countries - entirely and been promoted straight to the regional directorship, control of an entire continent. There were many in the organization who did not accomplish anything beyond area directorship after thirty years in the organization and this whelp had somehow jumped two levels beyond that in four years. A lot of people were sore as a result. Now, he saw, even the Executive Director - or EDOW, as he was often called - was showing his bias way over there in his fucking cushy seat in Paris.

The line finally clicked and Walker's voice came on the other side. Sather's fingers stopped drumming on the desk.

"Talk to me, Devon. What's going on over there?"

"Got a problem here, sir. One of my guys found Max Correll's body in Bromley. He's been sliced up pretty badly. His eyes have been gouged out and, get this, an X has been carved through his Watcher tattoo. The police are keeping a close hold on it. I just found out this morning."

"Goddamn," replied Walker. "I was wondering why Max had gone silent. And what have I said about calling me "sir," Devon. I said you can call me Mike."

Sather grinned as he leaned back in his chair, kicking his feet up on his desk. "Old habit," he said. "Anyway, this doesn't seem to bode well. Seems like some sort of message. Now, Correll wasn't one of my guys after Biskup was killed. He was transferred to your control. So what did you have him doing in Bromley?"

"Nothing. I don't know why he was there. I had him working up north on a special project in Scotland. He went dark over a week ago."

"Special project, eh? I don't much like the sound of that? Care to elaborate?"

"Not on the phone. We're not exactly secure."

"Sounds like we need better equipment on our phones, then."

"Take it up with IT, Dev."

"I should. Do I need to come over there and talk to you?"

"Not right now. Hold tight for now. Keep your ears open with the assets you have and let me know what you're hearing. Okay?"

"Can do. Can you at least give me a hint on what I should be hearing?"

"Not yet. Let's just say I have a bad feeling about it all and Max was checking up on it for me. As you can see, he must have found something. Something awful."

"Yeah, awful seems to be a kind word for it, Mike. Out here."

"Bye, Dev."

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10 August 1999

Westminster, England

As usual when things were not going his way, Sather could not sleep. He had given it the old college try but had failed miserably. Now, after glaring at his clock for the Nth time and seeing it stare redly back at him, inanimately telling him it was twelve past one in the morning, he threw the bedclothes aside and got up. He rubbed his face and groaned. Clad only in his boxers, he padded barefoot across his flat to the kitchen.

He poured a glass of milk and drank half of it standing in front of the open refrigerator. Shutting the door, he walked into his sitting room and eased himself in front of his desktop computer. The machine was typically used for playing video games but, at times, he used it for work purposes, as well. Running his fingers through his short blond hair, he switched on the computer and waited for it to boot up.

Sather sipped his milk as he clicked the desktop icon for the secure connection to the Watcher network. He set the glass on the little desk and typed in his password, waiting for the mainframe in Paris to recognize him. Seconds later, he was accepted into the network. Now he could investigate the question on his mind. He typed in the name: Maxwell Correll.

One benefit of being a Regional Director was practically no information was denied him. The full dossier on Correll was laid bare before him. Sather perused the man's entire service history with the Watchers, starting with the last eight months. "Investigating unusual Watcher activity in southern Scotland," was all it said.

Sather frowned. He went further back. He read through Correll's entire chronicle for Dobromil Biskup up to the man's death at the hands of Aadam Farid. Nothing particularly unusual there. Sather went back still farther. A four-year stint watching Johannes von Hapsburg, his first assignment, before being reassigned to Biskup, and that was it.

Sather drummed his fingers on the edge of the desk. What he saw was the typical career of the standard Field Watcher. There was nothing, except that last entry, which stood out at all. Rubbing his eyes in frustration, he moved his mouse to close the record.

He paused. A thought came to him. He clicked over to Correll's history before the Watchers. Sather's eyes widened. It had been there all along. Now he saw it. For six years, Max Correll had been an agent with the criminal investigative service in the British Army prior to his recruitment into the Watcher organization. The last two had been working undercover as part of a sting operation against the London mafia.

Correll's recruitment, in fact, had been a result of that sting. Sather's father, Jack, had approached Correll to inform him in order to tell him why it was best to leave a German hitman, Karl Eichmann, out of the final arrest operation. After much explanation, Correll had agreed to the change, the Army made the arrests, Correll left the Army and joined the Watchers.

"Good ol' Dad," whispered Sather, saving the record to his computer. "So, Mike," he continued under his breath, "Now I wonder why you were using a former CID agent on Watchers up in Scotland. What was going on up there? And what did he see that was so bad it made them gouge out his eyes and desecrate his Watcher tattoo? Well, I think I have at least an inkling of what to listen for on my end now."


	3. Close Your Eyes

"Before you cross the street  
Take my hand  
Life is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans"

"Beautiful Boy" - John Lennon

11 August 1999  
Atlanta, Georgia  
Atlanta-Fulton Public Library

One of the first things his teacher, Luca Bianchi, had told Jonathan Fairbanks was that knowledge was power. Fairbanks strove for that power at every opportunity. Whatever new discovery there was in the world, Fairbanks was never satisfied until he understood it completely.

Today it hit rather close to home; the immortality gene. A group of scientists in London had managed to isolate what they termed the 'Immortality gene' in flies, allowing them to regenerate body parts as parts grew old and weak, or were injured. This enabled the flies to lengthen their lives by a third. Scientists were predicting that within twenty-five years, they would have isolated this gene in humans, increasing average life spans from seventy or so years to upwards of one hundred-twenty.

Fairbanks had researched the project for hours, reading and re-reading the legal and medical papers on the subject, some studies going back as far as the turn of the century. The idea of immortality had fascinated man since before the beginning of Christianity. Perhaps somewhere in that scientific heap was the meaning of life - the meaning of immortal life.

Fairbanks sighed and rubbed his eyes wearily. The silence of the library finally penetrated his brain and he looked about him absently. When he had last looked up, the tables around him had been filled with a various assortment of people; college and university students hoping for a jump on their classes; authors and would-be authors researching projects and stories. Members of the general public who, like Fairbanks, just had a thirst for knowledge. Now, he was the only one remaining.

The Immortal closed the books in front of him and stacked them neatly in the middle of the table. He tossed his leather-bound journal into his backpack and grabbed his jacket. Nodding to Ms. Lansky, the librarian, he headed outside.

He had spent longer than intended in the library. It was still light but a new moon hinted from behind the clouds. Fairbanks groaned softly, once again cursing the powers that be that hadn't graced him with two more years of mortal life before beginning his Immortal one. At the physical age of sixteen, he could have driven a car through town to get back home. At fourteen, he was condemned to foot, bus, taxi or some other such mode of transportation, and always would be. But at least someone had the foresight and intelligence to create rollerblades. Fairbanks sat on the bench conveniently located outside the library and pulled the skates from his large backpack.

xxxxxxxxxx

It had taken Heinrich Gruber several weeks to convince Natalie Lansky that he was serious about taking her out to dinner. At first, she had laughed him off, shaking her head and wondering aloud why a multi-billionaire would want to spend time with a lowly librarian. Finally, he had managed to elicit a yes from the young, blonde woman, assuring her that he would make reservations at a modestly elegant restaurant, and not, in her words, "some snobby little place that serves a spoonful of mush and charges a hundred dollars to do so." The fact that the modest little place in question required reservations six months in advance and was located beside the Seine in Paris was something he hoped would surprise her. The private plane he had on standby would get them there in record time, as well.

Gruber pulled the BMW smoothly into a parking spot a half block down from the library entrance. He hesitated a moment, checking his reflection in the mirror, then exited the car. The presence swirled over him immediately. His head swiveled - left, right, left again. The only other body on the street appeared to be a dark-haired kid in the process of putting on rollerblades. But that kid was staring at him with the same intensity with which he was scanning the street. Reaching into his back seat, Gruber carefully removed his Toledo Salamanga saber. Holding it close to his body, he walked carefully toward the kid.

Rolling his eyes and sighing, Fairbanks pulled a short, curved wakizashi sword from inside his backpack. Hastily, he pulled the rollerblades off his feet. Fighting barefoot was not something he liked to do, but it wouldn't be the first time.

Heinrich Gruber assessed the Immortal in front of him, making the mistake of many before him. The body was that of a child. How much trouble could it be to take the head of a child? Gruber glanced quickly at his Rolex. 5:52 p.m. He had eight minutes before Natalie was free for the evening. Quite long enough, he thought, to put this Immortal child out of its misery.

"There is a deserted lot behind the library. I suggest we take our discussion there," he suggested.

Fairbanks stared at him for a brief moment, face blank, then he smiled and shrugged. The two men walked warily, side by side, neither one quite trusting the other. Once there, they turned to face each other, neither speaking.

In a move so quick Fairbanks almost missed it, Gruber's blade came out of its scabbard and across in a cutting arc that would have opened his belly if he had been a heartbeat slower to react. Fairbanks drew the wakizashi in time to block the slash, the resulting sound of steel on steel sending chills down the spines of both Immortals, reinforcing that neither could afford to make the smallest of mistakes. Here there were no rules, no judges, no expectation of conduct. In the end, there would be no quarter given.

Metal bit into metal again, both men lunging, thrusting, attacking, probing for an opening or a weakness. Crouched low, and drawing on all of his strength, Fairbanks hurled himself through the air like a human catapult. He caught Gruber by the shoulders, crashing them both into a metal garbage container. A jagged piece of metal gouged Fairbanks' elbow to the bone, his hand becoming slick with his own blood.

Gruber raised his sword, screaming obscenities as his Salamanga carved a wicked slice through the air. Fairbanks rolled to one side, Gruber's blade narrowly missing his throat and clanging loudly on the metal bin. He rolled again, staggering to his feet, desperately trying to retain his grasp on the blood slicked handle of the wakizashi. Sensing weakness in his opponent, Gruber grinned wickedly and advanced. A bright sliver of steel came stinging through the air and the grin left Gruber's face. He looked down at his own blood bubbling from the open wound on his thigh. Fairbanks attacked again with a killer's sense, slashing an arm this time, then a glancing blow across the belly.

Gruber tried vainly to deflect the attacks, willing his damaged arm and leg to heal quickly. They did, but not quickly enough. He heard the soft hiss of rushing air and his eyes flickered in disbelief. A look of utter incomprehension and horror crossed his face, and a groping movement by his hands as if they could not accept the fact that his head was no longer attached to his shoulders. He dropped to his knees, his head hitting the pavement before his body did.

Fairbanks' eyes closed briefly, slamming open again a scant instant before the Quickening hit him. Neither he nor Gruber had noticed the back door of the library open, nor had they seen the spectator to their deadly encounter.

"Just what in the bloody hell is going on?"

The words and the voice of Natalie Lansky echoed through Jonathan Fairbanks' head as the Quickening took hold and the soul of Heinrich Gruber melded into his.

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12 August 1999  
Atlanta, Georgia  
Ashton Residence

Fairbanks slept in the next morning. Something about injuries and Quickenings always seemed to make him hungry and tired. Add to that the fact that he was a teenager in body and had the wildfire metabolism and urge of sleep of all fourteen-year old boys and he was pretty much always hungry or wanting a nap. Well, he knew he couldn't sleep all day and keep up his peak fitness - or his killer physique, if the looks from the girls and some of the boys said anything - if he slept all day. A little extra sleep after a Quickening wouldn't hurt, though.

It was shortly at ten when Fairbanks came downstairs. He made his way straight to the kitchen to raid the refrigerator for whatever may have been leftover from breakfast earlier. The nine hundred twenty square meter home owned by his Immortal friend and mentor, David Ashton, also had the benefit of a small house staff, including an excellent young chef by the name of Bryce McFarland. Even the dregs left from a three-hours-ago breakfast would be superb. Treading quietly into the kitchen in only his usual sleeping attire of a pair of grey flannel pajama shorts, Fairbanks opened the fridge and peered inside. He frowned. There was nothing new since yesterday. He stood up.

"Ahem," he heard softly to his left. He looked over to see a grinning McFarland standing there, his hands crossed in front of him.

"I'm afraid Mr. Ashton had his usual of eggs, buttered toast, breakfast steak, sliced tomatoes, orange slices, and coffee this morning. If you would care to wait a few minutes, perhaps with a glass of juice, I can prepare your usual pancakes, eggs, and blackberries. It will just take a few minutes."

Fairbanks gave the chef a bright grin and a thumbs-up. "That would be awesome, Bryce. Would you mind doubling the eggs and adding some cheese to them? I've rather taken to that American tradition."

"Certainly," replied McFarland, still grinning.

Fairbanks, his black hair awry, reached back inside the refrigerator and pulled out a carafe of mango juice which McFarland kept freshly squeezed for him and poured a glass. Flashing another smile at the chef, he sauntered out of the kitchen in search of Ashton.

He found the man where he expected him, in his home office. He just had to use his nose and follow the scent of the cigar smoldering in between the Minoan's fingers as he chatted on the phone. Wandering into the office, Fairbanks eased himself onto the nearby couch and listened silently as he sipped his juice.

"Yes, Tony, I know you're concerned about the growing trend this year." Ashton paused to listen to the speaker on his desk. Fairbanks recognized the voice as the Prime Minister of England coming from the speaker on Ashton's desk phone. He smiled.

"And this proposal of yours, David, you're saying can help us cut down on the growing terrorist threat? What you're asking is unprecedented. My God, it's unheard of."

"That's exactly why it will work, Tony. Remember all those times when you've said your hands were tied and you could do nothing about any of those attacks? Well, in this case, you can, and completely off the record."

"And if the SoD (Secretary of Defence) or the public finds out about it?"

"For the first, he's your man and you have control of him. I say bring him in on it, in fact. For the other, we're just a rogue group of civilian defense contractors acting on our own. You're in the clear. Leave that sort of heat for me to deal with. You and your people will have complete deniability."

"And what about the partial funding you're requesting as part of this project?"

"You have all kinds of black operations in your defense budget, Tony. This will be another of them. Again, complete deniability. Even the SoD will support you on that."

"Alright, David, you've convinced me. When can we meet privately and work out the details?"

"I'm going to be there in a few weeks. I'll keep you updated. It won't be long."

"And you're sure that Bill won't be stepping in and agreeing to this proposal first?"

"No chance. He expressed no interest whatsoever. I stopped talking with him months ago. He can't stop me from convincing some of his soldiers to join me if you sign off on the deal, but he's not going to step on your toes and signing first."

"Good to know, David. I'll be waiting to hear from you."

"Thank you, Tony. We'll talk soon."

"Goodbye, David. And thank you."

"Goodbye, Tony."

"Rubbing elbows with bigwigs again, David?" asked Fairbanks as he set his empty glass on a small table near the couch.

Ashton chuckled and took a quick puff from his cigar before answering. "Just making plans for the future. I've been doing the stock market thing for twenty years now and across three separate identities and locations. It's time to try something else."

"And what's that?"

"In short, a private military corporation. It will test new military equipment for defense corporations and provide feedback on that equipment. It will also have another side which engages in executive protection, intelligence gathering, and direct action."

Fairbanks wasn't too surprised by the idea. After four thousand years of life, there was not much in the way of business that Ashton had not tried. He pointed at the speaker. "That's the part he's worried about, I guess."

Ashton grinned. "Yes. The direct action element will be composed partly of soldiers on loan from the British and American armies as well as civilians chosen by myself. It will be a very special group of people."

"If you can get him to sign off on it, that is."

"That's the crux of it, yes," said Ashton, taking another pull from his cigar. "I'm asking for some very specific terms for it all which are, of course, quite beneficial to the company and all of its members. That's partially where he is finding his sticking points, mainly in a lot of tax breaks for the employees. He's getting over those points, though. It's just a matter of time."

"So, when he does agree, that means we'll be moving back to England?"

Ashton shrugged. "That's a given. It will be quite difficult to manage such an affair from anywhere else." The Minoan's blue eyes flashed at the boy. "You'll be going back next year anyway, if memory serves."

Fairbanks' jaw dropped. "I was hoping you'd forgotten about that."

"Me? Forget?" Ashton chuckled again.

"You're right. You never forget." Fairbanks ran a hand through his uncombed hair. "I have a lost bet to repay."

"Yes, you do," replied Ashton, laughter racking his body.

"You don't have to enjoy it so much," countered Fairbanks.

"Oh, but I do," answered Ashton. "I've been looking forward to this for over a year now."

In 1998, Jonny Fairbanks, who prided himself on being a ladies boy, had been in a club with Ashton and had declared to his friend that he could seduce any woman he wanted. Ashton had immediately taken him up on the challenge. On the offer of a month-long trip to Japan, Ashton had pointed out a lusciously attractive lady nearby and suggested Fairbanks try his wiles on her. The cost if he failed, however, was Fairbanks would apply to and attend England's prestigious Eton College for two years - without getting expelled. Try as he might and after many signals that he might be close to doing so, Fairbanks could not woo the pretty lady. He ultimately gave up. Unbeknownst to him at the time, the lady, Cassandra Maddox, was a friend of Ashton's and, by unspoken communication from him, knew to resist Fairbanks no matter what. She later reported to both of them that it was great fun.

"That was a nasty trick, by the way," complained Fairbanks.

"But oh so much fun," replied Ashton, "and worth every second of it."

Remembering his food, Fairbanks stood and picked up his glass. Before walking out, he asked, "Have you heard from Darren lately? He's been on one of his silent spells again."

Ashton smirked and dropped his cigar in an ashtray. "No, not a peep of late. I'll have to check on him. The last I heard, he was somewhere in Spain working as an operator in a print shop. He said it kept him humble and that I should try it sometime."

"Working in a print shop or being humble?"

"Both," laughed Ashton as his phone rang. Fairbanks chuckled and walked out. He heard Ashton answer.

"Oh, Kat. Hello. It's been years. How are you?" Then the man's voice got quieter. Fairbanks kept walking. Pancakes awaited him.


	4. Death Becoming Clearer

"Hell is worth all that, natural habitat  
just a rhyme without a reason  
Neverending maze, drift on numbered days  
now your life is out of season  
I will occupy  
I will help you die"

"Master of Puppets" - Metallica

15 August 1999  
Edinburgh, Scotland

Alan Ottenbreit's fingers moved rapidly across his computer keyboard. The moment was at hand and he did not want to delay it much longer if he could help it. He and the other leaders had gone over their plans again as Matzel had suggested and, as the Ranger had foreseen, weaknesses had been found. Weaknesses identified and overcome. Now it was time to send the message out to the subordinates and initiate the campaign.

Ottenbreit was a lover of technology. He had found it to be an enabler or, as Matzel called such things, a combat multiplier, for all things they did. Now, thanks to a small program on this computer, he would take advantage of the short message service capability on the cellular phones of all the loyal Watchers under his command to begin their work. There would be no lengthy phone trees or radio calls. It would all be done with the punch of the Enter key from his computer. How glorious.

Leaning forward, Ottenbreit typed two words onto the monitor and then sat back to review them. He grinned coldly. There was such power in those two words, the ability to unleash hell upon all Immortals in Europe. They would even pick off a few in North America, just as a bonus and, per Matzel's suggestion, a diversion. Ottenbreit licked his lips as he read the words again.

"Cleanse Europe."

Ottenbreit hit Enter. It was done.

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15 August 1999  
Aachen, Germany

Dieter Frei strolled slowly down _Elisabethstraße_ on his way to lunch. There was a nice place on _Friedrich-Wilhelm-Platz_ just two blocks away that he quite enjoyed and he had plenty of time to get there. The joys of owning your own business. Of course, some would see the downside being that he worked until late hours, often until eight or nine in the evening, but the work was fun and so were the people.

Frei waved at Fraulein Metter as he walked, saying a few pleasantries as they passed. He must remember to ask her for more than how her day was sometime, perhaps if she was seeing anyone or if she was interested in a coffee. What was her first name? Oh, yes. Alexa. It would be good to remember things like that. He made a mental note to try chatting her up when he passed by here tomorrow.

Turning right onto _Hartmannstraße_, Frei cleared the few meters to _Friedrich-Wilhelm-Platz_ in only a minute and turned left. His mouth watered as he imagined the smells of the restaurant only a block away. He decided to quicken his pace, but only somewhat. Why rush too much?

The traffic on the street to his right was light and he made note of the passing vehicles. It was a mental game he played, just counting the cars or trying to identify them. Sometimes making a mental image of them and looking them up later. Just to keep his mind occupied. There was a grey BMW sedan, last year's model. Nice. Over there a Peugeot. Not so nice. Going the other way, an American Ford and a Honda Civic.

Hmm. A white Toyota panel van. That's a bit odd. And it's slowing down.

Frei looked about him, searching for potential passengers nearby the van might be seeking to pick up. He saw nobody. He was confused, then on edge.

The van stopped just in front of him and its side panel opened as he came alongside it. Involuntarily, Frei paused. Inside the van, he saw two men dressed in black. Their faces were concealed by balaclavas. It was not their faces that concerned him, however. In the hand of one was a .45 caliber pistol fitted with a silencer; the other man held a drawn machete. Frei gasped and took a step to run.

Too late. He heard the slide of the pistol kicking back and the sonic clap of the pistol round. An instant later, he felt the burning, ripping sensation of the high caliber bullet boring into his side. Another round punched into his right knee. He fell. Other pedestrians, unfamiliar with the nearly silent sound of the pistol, looked with confusion as he dropped to the pavement. One even moved to assist him but the sight of the machete-wielding man emerging from the van stayed him.

Frei tried to rise to his feet, but his leg would not obey him. He mentally inventoried his pockets for any sort of weapon, anything he could use to defend himself. His shoulders sunk. He had nothing. Who would expect such a thing as this?

_"Hilfe!"_ (Help!) he called to the nearby pedestrian. _"Stoppen Sie diesen Mann."_ (Stop this man.)

The pedestrian took a step closer. The man in the balaclava pointed the machete at the pedestrian. _"Komm näher und du bist der Erste."_ (Come any closer and you're first.) The pedestrian took two steps back.

_Das kann nicht echt sein, (This can't be real,) thought Frei. Werden sie das wirklich vor all diesen Leuten tun? (Are they really going to do this in front of all these people?)_

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15 August 1999  
Perugia, Italy

The _Bar Pasticceria Della Pescara_ was a well-lit, pleasant establishment and enjoyed by all its clientele, usually, for its fine pastry selection. That was not solely why Gabriele Mantovani came here, however. He also liked its wine. So much, in fact, that he had spent many an hour these last several days here enjoying both several of the large pastries and many bottles of its best red wine to go with them. Mantovani's sizeable girth gave evidence to his favoritism for both sweet food and drink.

_Dovrò fare qualcosa per questo peso, immagino. Mi sono lasciato andare negli ultimi cinquant'anni o giù di lì. Questo non lo farà. Sto iniziando a sembrare un americano. Ah, bene, una volta uscito da questa routine finanziaria, tornerò anche su un buon regime di fitness._ (I'll have to do something about this weight eventually, I suppose. I've let myself go these last fifty years or so. This just won't do. I'm starting to look like an American. Ah, well, once I crawl out of this financial rut, I'll get back on a good fitness regimen, too.)

Mantovani smirked to himself. He admitted that his concept of a financial rut was still, compared to the vast majority of people, still quite well off. How else could he afford the wine and the past month's rent at the Accogliente Monolocale just behind the patisserie? No, he was not doing badly when he compared wallets with others, but with his past. Oh, yes, he was certainly hurting when he looked at that. Ever since he put his lot in with that crackpot _Il Duce_ he had not done well at all.

_Avrei dovuto ascoltare quell'ufficiale di Fallschirmjäger, Anton Schultheiss, quando mi disse di mettere i miei soldi altrove._ (I should have listened to that _fallschirmjäger_ officer, Anton Schultheiss, when he told me to put my money elsewhere.)

Pushing aside his empty glass with a belch, Mantovani dropped some bills on the counter and stood shakily. He waved at the proprietor as he made his way to the door, saying he would return tomorrow. Stepping into the sunlight, he was suddenly glad he did not have far to walk. The dizziness which struck him was overwhelming.

_Ooh, troppo vino._ (Ooh, too much wine.)

Mantovani staggered north up Via Fonti Coperte. He put a hand over his eyes and squinted, wishing he had worn a hat. The light was blinding. He'd do better tomorrow. For now, he just had to make it to his rented flat, empty his bladder, and go to bed. After a long night's sleep, even though it was only late afternoon right now, he could begin again, in the morning.

_Tanto per quei piani per migliorare la mia forma fisica,_ (So much for those plans on improving my fitness,) he thought as his breathing became labored from the walk. He was halfway to the hotel now, just past the patisserie and in the area of the car park behind the hotel. So focused was he on simply putting one foot in front of the other and keeping the sunlight out of his eyes that he did not notice the three men come up behind him until they shoved him between two parked cars.

_"Co…"_ (Wha…) he gasped, banging his head on a bumper as he fell on his side. That was his last uttered word before the men fell on him with drawn blades.

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16 August 1999  
Almeria, Spain

Despite the fact that he had considerable wealth, somewhere in the neighborhood of one hundred million U.S. dollars the last time he had cared to check, Darren Dublin chose not to live like a millionaire. He kept the money for emergency purposes and preferred to live the life of his roots, a blue-collar man…with a few perks now and then. Besides, most of that money, in his mind, he had not earned anyway. It had come in the way of gifts or outrageous salaries from his friend, David Ashton. So he just let it ride in investments or other vehicles that he could tap when he needed it. He made enough from whatever work he was doing at the time - and kept enough in cash - that he could do whatever he wanted when he wanted.

Today, the print shop had closed early so the management could have some sort of "getting in touch with your feelings" training or another so all of the minions, like him, had been let out at noon. Since he had been having an incredible urge for pizza, Dublin had decided to walk in a direction other than that of his long-term rental flat and try out a pizzeria he had noticed during one of his morning runs. Now he was glad he had. _Buono_, as it was called, turned out to be excellent.

As a bonus, at least in Dublin's mind, the establishment offered outside seating and a view of the ocean. He sat now sipping tea and enjoying the last slice of his large pepperoni and mushroom. The owner had remarked how such a skinny man as Dublin could put away such a pie. Dublin had simply grinned and replied that he had a high metabolism and often ate quite a bit. The owner had laughed and brought him a complimentary basket of breadsticks as a surprise. Those had also vanished quickly.

The breeze of the ocean was a welcome relief from the midday heat. Not that Dublin minded the heat. He had grown up in a cold country and enjoyed being warm whenever he could, but a little air movement was nice, too. There was something charming about Spain. Dublin thought he might, just might, stay here a little bit longer. He'd only been here for two years. A few more wouldn't hurt, would they? He was a wanderer by nature, but settling down now and then wasn't a bad thing, either.

_I should drop a note to David in one of our dropboxes sometime soon. It's been a little while. I guess that's a bit old fashioned, but it's habit, too. I could just give him a call. I haven't talked to him or Jonny in a couple of months. It would be nice to hear their voices. Maybe I could convince them to come visit. I do enjoy seeing old friends._

Dublin's pleasant musings were sadly interrupted by the electric tingling of another Immortal's presence. He set the remainder of his pizza on his plate and took a final sip of his tea to clear his palate. Looking about, he tried to locate the potential opponent. The timing was not good. Except for the _sgian dubh_ hanging at the back of his neck by a necklace and a pocket knife, he was unarmed. Before he forgot, he slipped some bills under his glass to cover the bill.

It took only seconds to find the other Immortal. He was walking across the sand of the beach in front of Dublin. The man made eye contact with him only momentarily but kept walking, obviously not interested in a fight. Dublin recognized him. Javier Lucas. They had met a few months before in a pub. Even shared a few friendly drinks and stories about past lives. Now the man seemed only interested in treading as swiftly as possible across the sands to the pavement. Almost as if he were doing Dublin a friendly courtesy - or a warning - he made a minute gesture with his head. It was practically unnoticeable, but Dublin caught it. Someone was following Lucas. Four someones.

The men were about fifty meters behind Lucas. They were good. Their pursuit was measured and spread out. Only an experienced observer would notice what they were doing. To anyone else, they completely blended into the rest of the daily crowd.

Dublin did not react visibly, only moving his eyes at first to watch the men. He wondered where they received their training in surveillance and pursuit. A memory flickered in his mind, something from seventy years before. What had Ashton called them? Watchers? Mortals who observed Immortals? If these were Watchers, why were four of them tailing Lucas? Another memory emerged, a time when a Watcher had actually contacted him. This was getting surreal.

Lucas reached the _Paseo Maritimo Carmen de Burgos_ thoroughfare and turned northeast, away from Dublin. He continued to walk quickly. It took the four men less than a minute to reach the road and speed up their pace. They were more obvious now. With their backs to him, Dublin stood. Keeping himself fifty meters behind the strange men and doing his best to mix in with the other pedestrians, Dublin followed the followers.

Lucas walked for one hundred meters before coming up to the _Calle Jerez_ building. The four men were only ten meters behind him now. Lucas turned to the left and walked into the alleyway between it and Duque de Mar. The four men began to run as soon as he began his left turn. So did Dublin.

A gunshot shattered the relative peace of the afternoon. Passersby screamed in fright. Some of them froze in mid-step, one of them in front of Dublin. He collided into a wide-eyed brunette before he could stop himself.

_"Lo siento,"_ (I'm sorry,) he said to the woman, helping her up quickly and making sure she was unhurt before leaving her in the middle of the sidewalk. He pulled the pocket knife as he turned the corner, extending the blade as he came to a stop. It would have to do. It was the best weapon he had. And it was completely useless. He was already too late.

Dublin stood over the body of Javier Lucas, his severed head nearby. Against the wall of the _Duque de Mar_ building rested the pistol Lucas had used a moment ago in an attempt to defend himself. Before him was a spattering of blood. Dublin could clearly make out the two indentations in Lucas' chest where a taser had incapacitated him prior to the decapitating blow. A trail of blood showed where the four men had gone after the killing.

A chill ran through Dublin's body. This was not the way an Immortal was supposed to die. Not like this. It should be at the hands of another of his kind, not having his lifeforce wasted by mortals. Dublin took a deep breath and folded his pocket knife. Suppressing a shudder and running the way he had come, all he could think was, _What the hell is going on?_

xxxxxxxxxx

17 August 1999  
Lausanne, Switzerland

Todd Wolf made himself ready for an early morning run. One benefit, he had decided, in being a Watcher, was that keeping tabs on an Immortal often meant doing what the Immortal did. Since his Immortal, Dario Eckstein, was a fitness buff, and liked to start the day with a ten kilometer jog around _Le Denantou_, then so did Wolf. He would even exchange a few words with Eckstein on occasion, just another runner out for the morning. Sometimes he even picked up another bit of information for the Immortal's chronicle that way.

This morning, though, Eckstein was going a little faster than Wolf so the Watcher was happy just to keep about one hundred meters behind the man, if he could. Besides, it was pleasant just to watch the sun come up this morning. There was no sense getting too stressed out. The day was just beginning after all. After the run, Wolf would go back to his flat, shower, have breakfast with the wife and kids, and then link up where he knew where Eckstein would be and continue his day. Just the normal routine.

Wolf continued east down _Quai d'Ouchy_, the familiar sight of Lake Geneva on his right. He soon reached the Haldimand Tower and swerved left. Briefly, he regained sight of Eckstein in the distance. The man was just now turning left onto _Avenue de Denantou_, heading west. Wolf knew that stretch to be a longer length of roadway so perhaps he'd be able to eventually catch up. Again, no rush. After less than a minute, he was making his own turn.

The roadway had a lot of overhanging tree branches so Wolf had to pay more attention to his feet and possible trip hazards as he travelled. He didn't notice the problem until he was about seventy meters away. It looked like Eckstein had fallen over. Had he tripped over something himself? Whatever it was, it looked like two or three men had already gathered around him to assist him. The Swiss were very courteous people. Only seconds later when he was twenty meters from the men and had slowed to a walking speed to offer his encouragement to them, did he see one of them raise a short sword over his head and bring it down sharply. While the men may have not noticed his approaching footfalls, they did hear his gasp of shock.

_"Scheißkerl,"_ (Son of a bitch,) cursed one of the men. The three men gathered around the fallen body and looked at Wolf. He could not make out their faces in the shadows.

Realizing he was in an unfavorable predicament, Wolf took a step back. _"Tut mir leid. Ich wollte gerade gehen,"_ (Uh, I'm sorry. I was just leaving,) he said.

_"Nein, bitte bleib, Todd,"_ (No, please stay, Todd,) replied one of the shadows.

Wolf paused, confused. He recognized that voice. "Nolan?" he asked.

_"Ja, guten morgen,"_ (Yes, good morning,) answered the voice of Nolan Schudel just before his silenced 9mm pistol fired. Todd Wolf's forehead received a metal punch and he entered a black void.

Half an hour later, another jogger found the two bodies and alerted local police. The scene was the worst the local constabulary had seen in decades, one man beheaded and another shot through the head, both within minutes of each other. No witnesses. No motive. Only the footsteps of three men and a single shell casing from a 9mm pistol. There were not even any fingerprints on the casing. The ammunition was Soviet-made. The footprints were from boots so generic that tracing them was pointless. The chief of police pontificated that this may have been another flare up of old Cold War scuffling like the old days. That would explain the ghostlike - and ghastly - nature of the scene. What other reason could there be?

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18 August 1999  
Westminster, England

"Alright, Mike," Sather seethed into his phone. "I don't need to listen to my people in England. I've heard enough from the rest of the continent to know damn well what you had Correll doing in Scotland. We've had five Immortals killed in the last three days: Gabriele Mantovani in Italy, Dieter Frei in Germany, Javier Lucas in Spain, Dario Eckstein in Switzerland - and his Watcher, Todd Wolf, I should add, and, just this morning, Marcell Gulyás in Hungary and a near miss on Gregor Minosovic in Greece. None of them died because of other Immortals. It was Watchers. Cut the cloak and dagger shit with me, Mike. You had Correll, a former CID agent, investigating a potential Hunter cell. Am I right?"

Michael Walker sighed into his phone. "Yes, Devon, you're right. I didn't want to admit it because of the problems we had the last time they reared their heads in America a few years ago. Remember how bad that was? No, you wouldn't. That was before your time. It was horrible. The North American wing of the Watchers almost fell apart. They're still in turmoil over it. We're still trying to purge the ranks of the Hunter remnants over there."

"Well, Mike, I think what has likely happened, if we check the records, is they've quietly transferred themselves over to Europe over the last several years. All it is going to take is for the wrong person to be attacked over here and you could have something far worse than what you had in North America."

"What are you saying, Dev? You don't even know what happened back then."

"I'll read up on it later. I know Immortals and I know human nature. People have tempers and some of them can explode. You push the right one too far and you can set off a powder keg. No one expected the Archduke Ferdinand assassination to become World War One until it did."

"You're saying a few dead Immortals could blossom into a war?"

"It might, if we're not careful and don't act preemptively to stamp this out right away."

"I think you're overreacting on this, Devon," replied Walker. "We just need to locate the Hunters and stop them. We know they're headquartered somewhere in Scotland. That's a start."

"A start, yes, but their manpower is dispersed throughout Europe. We have to stop that, as well."

"True, that will be the harder part." Walker paused. "Head of the snake?"

"Kill the head and the body will die? Maybe. If we knew exactly where the head was. Correll never said, did he?"

Walker sighed again. "No, he didn't. He said he was moved around a lot and never brought to their actual headquarters. Or, if he was, he didn't know it. He was brought to some important locations. We know that, but not much else."

"Send me what you've got."

"You'll have it in your email soon."

"Thanks, Mike."

"Not a problem. You do bring up an important point about their manpower dispersion, though. In the past, even with the last time they sprung up, Hunter uprising have always been a localized occurrence, usually in one city. We've never seen them initiate a campaign across an entire continent before. The fact they've killed so many Immortals, and so soon, is also a concern. There is definitely a lot of planning and coordination behind this."

Sather sat back in his chair and tapped his fingers on his desk. He chewed the tip of his tongue for a moment as he stared at the ceiling. He smirked to himself. "This might sound a bit crazy, but it almost sounds like they've got a military guy as part of their planning group. Set out generalized goals at the highest level of operations, then lower level objectives that must be completed right away, and so on. Each cell, no matter how remote, has its own set of tasks it must complete by a certain time. After that, it has a new set of tasks."

"Hmm…that sounds like a feasible assumption. Maybe some of the people Max identified will match up with your theory. I'll send you all his notes."

"Thanks again. I'll look them over and let you know what I think."

"For now, Dev, keep this stuff on close hold. Let's not have this information spilling out to the rest of the organization just yet."

"Will do, boss. Out here."


	5. When I Was A Child

"Can you stand up?  
I do believe it's working, good  
That'll keep you going through the show  
Come on. It's time to go."

"Comfortably Numb" - Pink Floyd

22 August 1999  
Stone Mountain, Georgia  
Pine Lake Beach

Sunday for Jonathan Fairbanks was typically a divided day. Half of it was training time and the other half was play time. Since David Ashton observed Saturdays as a day of rest, Fairbanks did the same whenever he lived with the Minoan. However, while Ashton usually spent the whole of the next day working, Fairbanks was free to do as he wished.

Rising as his usual four-thirty like Ashton did, he completed a series of calisthenics and went for a twenty-five kilometer run. He followed this with several short and long sprints and then walked another three kilometers back to the house to cool down.

Throwing his sweat-drenched clothing into the laundry chute, he took a ten-minute shower, dressed in fresh, loose clothing, and relaxed for half an hour reading a nonfiction book he had borrowed from the public library a week ago. At nine fifteen, he met Bryce downstairs for a casual late breakfast. This morning he decided to change up his usual meal and have a large spinach and mushroom omelette, several pieces of duck bacon (there was no pork in Ashton's house), a banana, two pieces of buttered toast, a pitcher of filtered water, and a glass of mango juice.

How far I've strayed from the full English breakfast, he thought. That meal, which Fairbanks used to wolf down whenever he lived with a British family, typically consisted of two poached or scrambled eggs, grilled back bacon, one grilled sausage, hash browns, black pudding, mushrooms and tomatoes, two spoons of baked beans, and toast. Naturally, with David Ashton's mostly kosher way of eating, such fare was out of the question.

"Hey, Bryce, I'd like just a sandwich or something light for lunch, okay? I'm going to bike down to Pine Lake later on and hang out at the beach for a while."

"Bike down?" repeated McFarland. "That's quite a ride. Wouldn't you like for someone to drive you instead?"

"Nah, I can make it there in about ninety minutes. It will be a good way to loosen up for the water."

"Alright. I'll also fix a snack for you to have on your way back, then."

"Thanks, Bryce."

Fairbanks spent another half hour after breakfast with his book and then the next ninety minutes in the house's gym working on his various martial arts katas and sword techniques. When noon o'clock struck, he was again completely soaked with sweat. He debated whether to shower again or, since he was going to spend an hour and a half on a bike and just get sweaty again, just change clothes and let the swim cleanse him. He chose the shower. Fifteen minutes later, sunglasses over his brown eyes and a blue ball cap on his head, he was on his bike and munching on his reuben on rye sandwich, McFarland's bagged snack, two canteens of water, his cell phone, two towels, and his wakizashi in his backpack. A Walkman CD player set on repeat was nestled in an outer pocket of the pack with headphones running out and underneath his cap for entertainment. The soft rock melodies of Gil Ofarim, an artist Fairbanks had discovered two years before, played while he rode.

He arrived just before two in the afternoon. As he had expected, there were lots of other people in attendance, including, as he had hoped, lots of eye candy or, as their parents would have called them, teenage girls. Fairbanks dismounted his bike near the beach house and used a bike chain to lock it onto a nearby bar. Not really caring who saw him disrobe, he was a boy after all, he sat at a picnic table and shucked his denim shorts and t-shirt. He stowed them along with his shoes and socks in his pack, exchanging them for the towels. The cap and sunglasses, he kept, at least for now.

Fairbanks spread one of the towels out in a vacant spot and sat. For a while, he was content just to observe the scenery a bit, getting the feel of the place. He leaned back on his elbows and let his eyes roam around the beach, sometimes just staring out in front of him, sometimes following a comely girl walking this way or that. With his sunglasses on, no one could tell the difference.

"Wow! You don't have to work on a tan much, do you?" asked a nearby voice.

Fairbanks looked up to see a boy with shoulder-length blond hair of about thirteen smiling down at him. The boy was wearing a white and gold t-shirt and black, knee-length shorts. The child Immortal smiled back.

"Not really," he replied. He gestured across his torso. "I pretty much stay like this all the time. Sometimes I get a little darker, but that's all. I don't know what was in my bloodline somewhere in the past, but there you have it."

The boy's eyes widened upon hearing Fairbanks speak. "That's a cool accent you have. Where're you from?"

"England originally," said Fairbanks as he stood, but I've travelled around so much and learned so many languages that I have this crazy mutt of an accent. I'm Jonny, by the way." Fairbanks extended his hand.

"Tanner." The boy shook his hand.

"Oh, Tanner, sorry, buddy, I have to teach you how to shake hands. If my friend, David, ever met you, he'd deduct "good boy" points from you right away with a weak shake like that."

"Really?" The boy's smiled slackend a notch in concern. Jonny made a mental note. This one really cares what others think of him.

"Show me. Show me," said Tanner.

"Okay. Start by taking my hand with a good grip. Like this. Alright. That's good. Now, give it a good first shake and don't let go. Don't be afraid. It's not going to bite. Just one shake is good. Sometimes the guy will go for another, but usually not. Sometimes they'll hang on for another second or two and look into your eyes, too." Fairbanks took off his glasses and looked into the boy's blue eyes. "Like this. It's all a judge of character. You should always look into the person's eyes when you shake hands. Don't pull away, but when they let go, you let go. See? It's easy."

"Cool! Thanks. Can we try that one more time?"

"Sure. Hi, I'm Jonny Fairbanks."

"And I'm Tanner Doron." The boys shook hands again.

"Much better, Tanner. David would definitely give you "good boy" points for that shake."

"And what do "good boy" points mean to your friend?"

"It means he treats you like a normal boy rather than a little baby. After a while, he even stops treating you like a boy. You become a man in his eyes."

"That's cool. Is he here? Can I meet him?"

"No, he's not here. He lives about thirty minutes away by car, ninety or so by bike. That's how I got here today. You're welcome to come visit, though, if your parents agree."

"That would be awesome!"

"Are you making new friends already, Tanner?"

Both boys turned to behold two tall blonde girls in bikinis, one in red and one blue. Fairbanks slipped his sunglasses back over his eyes so he could take a better look at the two while hiding his lascivious. The two teens were obviously twins and spectacularly fit. Fairbanks assumed they were, aside from being naturally gifted physically, also high school athletes. He guessed their ages to be around sixteen. Based on Tanner's nonchalance around them rather than the usual teenage nervousness one would expect around such beauties, they were clearly his sisters.

"And cute new friends at that," said the girl in the blue bikini.

"Ah, can it, Trisha," blustered Tanner. "This is Jonny. Don't go hitting on him already. You just got here."

"Come on, little brother. Let a girl have a little fun," said the other sister, stepping over and putting an arm around her brother's shoulder. "She won't break him."

"Not you, too, Traci. Jeez. Can't we even have lunch before you two go touching up every boy you see?"

"Well," suggested Trisha, walking around behind Fairbanks and putting her hands on his shoulders. "Why don't you invite your new friend to lunch, too, and we can all enjoy his company."

Tanner rolled his eyes and looked over at Fairbanks. "Hungry?" he asked.

"I could eat something," agreed Fairbanks, covertly reaching back and patting Trisha once on the thigh. She grinned at his cheekiness and squeezed his shoulders. "A little snack would be nice."

Fairbanks met Tanner's parents, Theodore and Tabitha, whom he found to be completely, through and through, boring people. They were consummate yuppies and full of themselves, without any concept of the real world. He did not let this show in the slightest, however. Tanner, and perhaps his little brother, Timothy, Fairbanks thought, had a chance to become decent when they grew up. He accepted their food and company gratefully and put on a good face while he was with them, but only truly enjoyed talking with Tanner. Playing with nine-year old Timothy was fun, as well. The girls, while hot as hell, he had decided were at risk of growing up to become nothing more than mirror-images of how he sized up their mother - as he called them, "worthless sperm dumpsters in search of a sugar daddy to support them; only happy as long as they're pretty." At least that was his read on Tabitha. Traci was well on the road to the same destination. Trisha, by far the smarter of the twins by his judgment, could possibly escape that cookie cutter.

After forty-five long minutes of playing the good guest with the Dorons, Fairbanks suggested to Tanner that they hit the water. Tanner eagerly agreed and shed his t-shirt. Timothy wanted to accompany them but his parents told him to stay with them in the shallower water. He grudgingly stayed behind.

Fairbanks jogged over to his abandoned towel and dropped his cap and sunglasses on it. As an extra precaution, he removed the silver necklace he wore around his neck, as well. He looked at it briefly. Suspended from the thin chain was a ring David Ashton had given him nearly eight centuries ago, one originally worn by Ashton's younger brother, Thekris. Fairbanks rarely went without it. He certainly did not want to lose it in the water, though. He rolled the necklace and ring together and placed them underneath the towel on which he had been laying before dashing into the water. He quickly caught up to Tanner and the girls. Trisha, whom he had noticed had freckles on her nose while Traci did not, immediately pounced on him and tried to dunk him under the water. He twisted in her grasp and slid out of her arms, allowing a hand to not-so-innocently slide across her chest as he did so. She gave no reaction to his fondle other than a laugh. The others took it all in fun.

They continued with their horse play for half an hour before deciding to take a breather. Emerging from the water, they made way for Fairbanks' large towel and laid themselves across its breadth. Lying close to each other, there was just barely enough room for them. The proximity, maybe it was the skin-to-skin contact, for some reason, they found humorous and they found themselves breaking into laughter every half minute or so.

Fairbanks sat up on an elbow first and glanced about the beach. He walked his fingers slowly across Trisha's flat stomach, eliciting a giggle from the girl, then from her navel to her neck, making her sigh contentedly, before reaching across her and tapping Tanner on the arm. The boy opened his eyes and looked at him. Fairbanks pointed behind them. Tanner arched his neck to peer in that direction.

"Look," said Fairbanks. "That guy has set up a tightrope and is holding a competition. Let's join in."

Tanner grinned at first, but then said, "I've never walked a tightrope before."

"Come on," urged Fairbanks. "I'll show you how."

The four of them stood and joined the line of children and teens waiting their turn to try the tightrope. Fairbanks noticed there was one rope off to the side for practice which no one was using. He motioned for the others to follow.

"Okay, boy and girls, here's how you do it. When you're standing on the ground, as you see me doing right now," Fairbanks shifted his body to the left and right and then began to walk, "you can see that my center of gravity goes out to the sides when I move my feet." He shifted his feet in front of each other and slowly alternated one foot in front of the other. "But when you're on the rope, your balance is shifted directly over the rope and has to move forward, not side to side. You become infinitely aware of your balance. If it shifts too far to either side, you fall. If it stays in your center, you're fine."

"Sounds like karate," said Tanner.

"Kind of," replied Fairbanks. "The concept of constant balance is the same."

Traci piped in, "Tanner is a second degree black belt in Shorin-Ryu karate. He should be able to do this no problem, then."

Fairbanks eyes flashed at the blond boy. "Really? Well, let's see it, then. Hop up here, Tanner."

Tanner climbed up onto the supporting post and looked down at the rope with suspicion. He shifted his gaze back to Fairbanks.

"Should I put my feet longways or across the rope?"

"Whatever works for you. I do better going lengthwise and looking at my destination rather than trying to go sideways."

Tanner nodded and took a breath. He held out a trembling foot and brought it down slowly.

"That's it, Tanner. Nice and steady," encouraged Traci as his toes made contact with the rope.

"Shh," rebuked Fairbanks quietly. "Don't distract him." He watched the boy lower his weight with gentle patience, testing his balance the whole time. Fairbanks nodded. He felt a feathery touch along his back and looked to his side. Trisha was stroking his back rather than cheering her brother. Fairbanks let her continue and, when he saw that Traci's eyes were fixed on Tanner, began to reciprocate the girl's actions near the small of her back with his fingertips. She gave a slight shudder but made no sound.

Tanner had one foot fully on the rope and began to shift his other onto it. His body began to wobble. Fairbanks tensed. So did Trisha, but for a wholly different reason. Fairbanks' fingers were at the base of her spine and stroking upward. The boy Immortal glanced toward the teenage girl. She was flushed and slightly trembling. She was biting her lower lip, as well. She did not stop rubbing his back. Fairbanks returned his gaze to Tanner.

The blond boy had managed to regain control of himself and had his left foot beside his right, slowly moving it to the front. His eyes shifted constantly from the rope in front of him to the far post, using it as a balancing point. He held his arms out to his sides like wings. His lips were pressed tightly together in concentration. For a second, he almost forgot to breathe and wobbled again. He inhaled through his nose and let it out slowly through barely open lips. His left foot finally made contact with the rope and began to take some of his body weight. He allowed himself a small grin. He stood still, making sure of his balance.

"Okay," Tanner whispered to the others. "That was tough, but I think I've got mounting the rope down. Now I just have to start moving. Let's see if I can make three steps."

"Before you move," offered Fairbanks, "remember to keep your knees flexed slightly. Don't keep them locked or your balance will be shot and your legs will give out."

"Alright," answered Tanner with the slightest of nods. "Here goes."

At first, the boy did not move at all, only stood there swaying back and forth. Then his right foot shifted with glacial slowness off the rope and began to move forward. Traci audibly held her breath, clasping her hands under her chin. Trisha shuddered again and beads of sweat began to form on her brow. She licked her lips and bit her lower lip once more. Tanner's foot eased onto the rope and he paused. Traci began to breathe again.

It took Tanner a full minute to bring his left foot in front of his right. After doing so, he began to wobble again and had to lower his body by his knees in a fight for balance. He swayed to one side ever so slightly before righting himself. With an effort, he pushed himself back up to a full stand. Sweat was now pouring down his face. He took another breath and lifted his right foot. One more step. Then his left leg quivered and gave out. He toppled from the rope into the sand.

"Oh!" moaned Traci. "And you were doing so well."

"I'd say he did magnificently," said Fairbanks. "That was an incredible first time." His hand was now back at his side. "Who's next?"

"I'll try," volunteered Traci, stepping up to the post.

"Good," whispered Trisha. "I can barely breathe right now."

Fairbanks grinned but said nothing. He walked up to the post and waited for Traci to mount the rope. Tanner, sensing Fairbanks' intent, moved to the other side. Traci smiled down at them.

"Are you boys expecting that I'll fall off right away and trying to be heroic?"

"Just being prepared. You know, just in case," Fairbanks replied, flashing her his most charming smile in return. Traci laughed.

"Alright. Here I go."

Her confident smile faded as her foot extended over the rope. Fairbanks watched her intently, ready for the first sign of imbalance. So far, at least, she was fine. Her left foot came down on the rope and was supporting her weight. She began to shift her right. That was when it happened. Her body twisted in Tanner's direction and she plummeted downward.

She only had a meter or so to fall but she still gave out a little squeal as she did so. Tanner moved to his right to try catching her or, since she was three years older and twelve centimeters taller, at least keep her from toppling over. The fall was more like a long hop, but Traci still crashed into her brother and brought them both down to the sand, she on top of him.

"Ugh, get your boobs outta my face, Trace," sputtered Tanner, struggling beneath the giggling girl.

"One day you won't be complaining about when a girl does that, you know?" Traci reminded him with a mischievous grin.

"Maybe," Tanner grumbled, turning his head to the side, "but she won't be my sister."

"Oh, I don't know," whispered Fairbanks so only Trisha could hear. "I rather like the idea of putting my face in your sister's boobs."

Trisha giggled softly and pulled the boy closer to her so his cheek was firmly pressed against the side of her right breast. She kept him that way until her siblings regained their footing. Then, replacing her breast with a quick touch of her lips, she dashed to the post for her turn on the rope.

Trisha lasted just as long as her sister had only this time she fell toward Fairbanks. He had somewhat better luck in breaking her fall. It had nothing to do with differences in height since he and Tanner were essentially the same in that area, but in technique. Fairbanks did not stand in front of Trisha when her feet hit the ground. As she staggered forward, he put an arm high around her midsection and walked along with her at a fast backstep until she could manage herself.

"Thank you," said Trisha, putting a hand on his shoulder for support as she looked into his upturned face. "Has anyone ever told you that you have the most beautiful brown eyes? They're like big puppy eyes." She stroked his black hair with her free hand as she spoke.

Fairbanks blinked once and smiled. "Today?" he said with even more of an air of mischief than Traci had earlier. "Only gorgeous bikini-clad blonde girls in distress. But if we're not careful the others will notice."

Trisha stuck out her bottom lip for the briefest of moments before nodding in agreement and dropping her hands. Fairbanks took a step back from her and looked to the other two. They did not appear to have noticed the exchange.

"So," he continued, "enough practice? Should we try the real thing?"

"Yeah, let's go," beamed Tanner.

They only had to take forty steps or so to get to the actual competition. By now, the line was considerably shorter. Fairbanks brought a hand up to his forehead in the classical facepalm as they approached.

"Oh, shit," he hissed. "I forgot."

"Forgot what?" asked Tanner, turning back to look at him.

Fairbanks pointed at the sign near the front of the line. "There's a five dollar entry fee for the competition." Fairbanks shrugged. "They have to pay for the prizes and the employees manning this thing somehow. Hold on. I'll be right back."

In less than a minute, he had dashed back to his bike and found it completely unmolested. He opened a hidden compartment in its side where he kept a bus pass, a spare passport (although it and the bus pass bore a different name than the one he currently used), a debit card, and fifty twenty-dollar bills. Pulling one note out of the stack, he stowed the rest back in the compartment and sealed it away again, making a mental note to replenish the cash when he got home. He ran back to the waiting teenagers.

"Here we go," Fairbanks announced upon his return. "We're good now."

"Wow! Thanks, Jonny," exclaimed Tanner, putting an arm around his friend's shoulder. "You didn't have to do that."

Mirroring Tanner's arm gesture, Fairbanks replied, "And that's why I did it. Gifts are fun exactly because you don't have to give them." Pulling the boy a little closer, Fairbanks whispered into his ear as they walked, "Besides, don't you want to see your sisters topple off that line a few times and watch those guys over there fall over themselves trying to catch them?"

Tanner put a hand to his mouth and giggled. "Oh, yeah. That will be funny."

"What will be funny?" asked Traci, turning around.

"Nothing," yelped Tanner, his arms dropping to his sides.

"Why don't I believe you?" Traci glanced to her sister. "What do you think?"

Trisha, standing by Traci and looking down at both boys, wiggled her nose in suspicion. "They do look like they're scheming something."

"Okay, you've broken me. I confess." Fairbanks spread his arms wide in surrender. "I was telling him how I was going to pull the ties on one of your tops while you were on the line and expose you to everyone."

Traci's eyes widened almost as much as her jaw dropped. Trisha smirked. "Which one of us?" Traci asked.

"I hadn't decided yet."

"Why, you little imp." Traci's shock was turning back into a grin now. "But you're still adorable. And, yes, that would have been funny."

Fairbanks stepped up to the twenty-something man at the front of the line and explained he was paying for the four of them. The man seemed far more interested in Traci's smile than the British boy's money. Fairbanks finally had to take the gawking gent by the wrist and gently tug to get his attention. Even then, the man gave him ten dollars change. Rolling his eyes, Fairbanks slipped the ten-dollar bill into the man's cash box while he was still gazing at Traci. He had no interest in petty larceny right now. He was here to have fun. Thirty meters away, unnoticed by Fairbanks, Glen Simonetti, the boy's Watcher, smiled and snapped another picture.

"Okay," said Fairbanks as he led the other three to the post. "Who wants to go first?"

"We still haven't seen you go, Jonny," stated Tanner with a grin. "Why don't you go first?"

Fairbanks chuckled. "Are you sure? I was thinking of going last. You know, so I don't embarrass you."

"Oh, honey," cooed Trisha. "Don't you worry about embarrassing us. Now you get your cute little behind on that rope."

"Hey, a lot of work goes into that butt," Fairbanks declared as he climbed the post. "You'd better appreciate it."

"Oh, believe me. I am," assured Trisha.

"Oh, God," groaned Tanner. Traci giggled and patted her brother's shoulder.

"I presume only those who make it all the way across are considered for the prize," stated Fairbanks to the judge next to him.

"That's right. So far," he indicated the far post, "we've had a lot of kids try, some of them several times, but only two have made it all the way."

Fairbanks looked at the other post. He saw two children maybe a year younger than Tanner. Something about them made him think they were siblings. Maybe it was the similar shade of brown hair. Seeing the boy's t-shirt, he had an idea. He waved at the boy to get his attention and then to bring him over. With a quizzical expression on his face, the boy approached.

"Hi," Fairbanks said when the boy was within a comfortable speaking distance. "Would you mind if I borrowed your t-shirt for a minute or two?"

The boy grinned up at him. "What for?"

"You'll see. I think you'll like it."

Still grinning, the boy shrugged and pulled the shirt over his head. He handed it up to Fairbanks.

"Thanks," said the child Immortal, taking the shirt and rolling it up. He then wrapped the fabric around his eyes.

"You're going to do it blindfolded?" asked Tanner.

"No way!" breathed the now shirtless younger boy beside him.

"Sure," said Fairbanks, standing up straight. "Look at the line. It's ten meters long and it's not even rope like you guys were using for practice. It's flat five-centimeter wide tension straps like you'd use to tie down cargo on a truck. Now, the big question," he held one foot out and touched the strap, "is just how much tension is in the strap. That will make all the difference in the world." He grinned. "Oh, yeah. No problem."

Fairbanks began to move down the line. To the observers, it probably looked very much like more of a slow walk. He was, in fact, being extremely careful, especially as he neared the center of the line. He had simply done this sort of thing many times before so it looked far easier than it actually was. Each step was actually its own little experiment in the shifting of balance, readjusting a completely mental image of his location on the line, and finding the line in front of him. In truth, even without the myriad of other distractions that could have been there - like a handful of burning coals at one point in his history, this was quite a test in concentration, even when only crossing a ten meter span.

The tension on the line increased slightly as Fairbanks neared the far post. Even without his mental idea of his position, he knew he was close to the termination point simply from the sudden silence of those around him. He eased his left foot down and allowed his weight to settle onto the line. He felt his toe just barely graze the far post as it came down. Recalling the dimensions of the beginning post, he knew there would be just enough room for his feet if they were perfectly positioned. This meant the hardest part of his little trick would be the dismount, at least in appearance. He had done that before, too, of course.

Swinging his right foot around in front of him, he positioned it on top of the post and pushed up, taking as much of his body weight as he could onto it. This took virtually all the weight off of his left foot and he simply lifted it off the line and put it on top of his right. He paused there for two seconds. Whipping the borrowed shirt off his eyes, Jonny Fairbanks then jumped off the post and landed in the sand on both feet. All the people around him, from children to adults, even the judges, applauded him. He bowed, gave everyone a huge grin and a wave, returned the shirt to the wide-eyed boy who'd loaned it to him, and returned to his friends.

"That was incredible," gushed Tanner. Unable to resist himself in his enthusiasm, he bounded over to Fairbanks and clamped his arms around him. The grinning Englishboy made no attempt to impede him - in fact, he enjoyed hugs - and returned it just as happily. Tanner's sisters each did the same, Trisha a little longer and with a bit more pressing into her chest than Traci.

"Okay, I take back the part about being embarrassed," Trisha admitted, smiling. "There's no way I can beat that."

Fairbanks patted her arm. "Just make it across the line and you'll be fine."

"Want to go next, Trish?" asked Traci.

"Sure. Just don't expect me to be as cool as Jonny was."

"Oh, no. That was truly stupendous," said Tanner. "I don't think any of us could do that if we tried a hundred times."

Fairbanks laughed. "Try a thousand times and it will be easy. Well, easier."

Tanner gawked. "You've done that a thousand times?"

Fairbanks held out a hand, palm down, and wiggled it. "More or less."

"How do you have time for all of that?" he asked.

"I'm home schooled," Fairbanks replied. "I also spend a lot of time with exercise and martial arts. That friend of mine, David, believes in an all-around education, body and mind."

"So that's why you're such a hottie," Trisha called out from atop the post.

"Don't worry about my body," laughed Fairbanks. "Pay attention to yours while you're up there." Leaning back to whisper to Tanner, he added, "Everyone else is." Tanner giggled.

Trisha stepped out and placed a foot on the line. Her expression indicated her surprise at the simplicity of balancing on this line compared to the rope. It took her only thirty seconds to have both feet off the post. With both arms extended, she began to slowly traverse the narrow strip. She had clearly paid attention during Fairbanks' attempt and slowed herself as she neared the center where it began to noticeably bow. With small, persistent steps, she continued to move toward the far post.

She stopped two meters from it, her growing exhaustion becoming apparent, but did not tarry long. She focused her eyes on the far post, now only centimeters from it, and extended a foot. Trish placed her foot onto post and leaned forward. Too far. The overcorrection cost her and she fell from the post into the sand. The crowd around her let out its pent up breath and a groan of disappointment. A slow clap of approval for her effort then followed as she slowly stood.

Traci mounted the post next without prompting. Like her sister, all the hormone-charged males in the audience fixed their eyes upon her. She started well, making her way to the middle of the line slowly but with good balance. She frowned as the line sagged, though.

"It's okay, Trace," said Trisha softly. "Just keep going, slow and steady."

Traci nodded and eased a foot around. The line swayed as she placed it in front of her. She leaned into it and waited for the swaying to stop. Now she was overbalanced to the front and had to fight to correct herself, slowly raising herself back up. The crowd breathed along with her as she sighed in relief. She placed another foot in front of her. It was slightly off to the side and it slipped off the line as she put her weight onto it. She toppled to the right and fell off the line. There was another audible groan from the audience and more clapping.

"It's all on you now, Tanner. Do us proud," said Trisha, running her hand along her brother's back for encouragement.

Tanner nodded and took a deep breath. He mounted the post and stood there for several long seconds, taking survey of the obstacle. Fairbanks stood near him.

"Take a close look," he said to the boy. "It's flat and a little wider than the rope was. It's even a slight bit tighter in its tension. As you saw, you just have to watch out for that sag in the middle. You can do this."

"Okay," replied Tanner, nodding again. He took another breath and patted his chest lightly. Closing his eyes for one more breath, he opened them and looked back at the line. He extended a foot, placing it carefully on the fabric. Before placing any weight on the foot, he just felt it, getting used to the sensation, his head cocked to the side like a puppy. He spread his arms and leaned forward slowly. The line took his weight easily.

Tanner swung his left foot around to his front and set it on the line. He realized his movement was a little too fast as he wobbled. He froze. He flexed his knees slightly and waited. The line steadied. He moved again, another foot forward. Then another. Two more steps and he was at the center. Like Trisha and Fairbanks, he took smaller steps to get out of the danger zone. He had only three meters of line left to go once he was clear of the sag. Another slow, but slightly longer step forward. He wobbled again and swayed to his left to correct it. Just enough. He stood and took another stop. Two more would bring him to the post.

Deciding to be more careful now, Tanner took smaller steps, placing them almost heel to toe. This doubled the number of steps he needed but still brought him safely to the post. He eyed it carefully. His right foot was behind his left. He swung it around with infinite patience, finally touching the flat wood after ten seconds. He pressed carefully upon it to take weight off the line and stepped up, setting his other foot next to the other. He paused in place and smiled. The crowd erupted in applause like it had for Fairbanks. With a whoop of triumph, Tanner jumped off the post.

"That was awesome, little brother," crowed Trisha as he returned to the group to receive hugs from all around.

"It sure was," agreed Fairbanks, "especially for a first try."

"That was your first time doing this?" asked one of the judges.

"Yes, sir," admitted Tanner. "Jonny showed me how to do it on the practice line over there a few minutes ago, but that's all."

"Well," said the man to his assistant. "I think it's time to declare the winners, then. That's the end of the line and our time is about up anyway." He motioned for Tanner and Fairbanks to step forward. With a glance at his clipboard, he lifted a hand toward one of the other nearby children.

"Not me," declared Fairbanks, shaking his head. "I just did it for fun."

The judge's jaw dropped. "Are you sure? But you paid admission and had the best crossing of them all."

"Yep. I'm fine with it." Fairbanks grinned up at the man.

Nodding his head, the judge motioned to his assistant as he replied, "Well, at least let us give you a t-shirt, then."

"Now, that, I will accept. Thanks."

The judges quickly took the names of Tanner, the brown-haired boy, and his sister. They then announced the winners of the competition: Tanner, the girl, and then the boy for third place. As prizes, they each received a t-shirt, a certificate, and twenty-five, twenty, and ten dollars, respectively. Tanner was beaming.

"That was incredible. Thank you, Jonny. I never would have done this on my own."

"Neither would we," admitted Traci. "It was so much fun."

Watching the two younger siblings run up to their exuberant parents, Tanner turned to his sisters. "We have to tell Mom and Dad about this." Without waiting for their reply, he bounded off toward the picnic table they had used earlier. Traci laughed and jogged after him.

Trisha glanced down at Fairbanks, a grin on her face. "I guess we should go after them."

"I suppose so," the boy Immortal agreed.

It took the two teens a few minutes longer to catch up to Tanner than it did Traci. It was long enough to arrange a clandestine rendezvous elsewhere once Trisha had established the pretext of lusting after another boy. Theodore and Tabitha were visibly proud of their son's achievement and showered thanks on Fairbanks for prodding him into attempting it. Timothy was also proud of his big brother but also expressed his wish that he could have tried it himself. Traci mussed the boy's hair and hugged him, instead. He pretended to sulk but soon smiled at the affection. Fairbanks then thanked the Dorons for allowing him to spend time with them and said that, with it nearing six o'clock, he needed to be heading home. He made a point of getting Tanner's phone number and reemphasizing the invitation for the boy to come visit anytime. The Dorons waved him off and Fairbanks gathered his things. He was on his bike and out of sight minutes later.

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Fairbanks did not actually leave Pine Lake until well over an hour after he left the picnic table. He did, after all, have an appointment with a blonde bombshell to keep. Rubbing his shoulder as he rode home, he let the memory of that pleasant interlude wash over him. Their playtime with each other had riled the girl up considerably beforehand. So much, in fact, that during her third climactic high, she had bitten his shoulder hard enough to almost draw blood. The wound had long since healed, of course, but the memory was still there. Fairbanks grinned. It had been a good day. He had been able to get in some decent play time, meet a possible new friend, and seduce a hot girl. Oh, and he had food in his bag to top it off.

Since he was riding along a flat piece of road, he swung the pack around and unzipped it. Reaching inside while steering with his knees, he fished out the Tupperware container McFarland had given him before he had left. He was pleased to see that the chef had predicted he might try to eat while biking and had prepared accordingly. It was a chicken sandwich on wheat bread with mustard. Nice and simple. Holding the sandwich in his mouth, Fairbanks zipped up the pack and put his arms back through the straps. He had already slipped one of the canteens into the holder on the handlebars. He was good to go now.

As he ate, he found himself thinking about Tanner. He did want the boy to come visit sometime and to meet David Ashton. There was certainly a great deal he could learn from the Minoan which would benefit him.

Maybe Timothy, too. Hell, it would be good for David, too, for that matter. He's such a workaholic and having kids in the house gives him an excuse to take a break. Well, I do a lot of that myself, but other kids help, too.

As far as helping either of them, David would be able to teach them more knowledge and skills in a weekend, all in the form of play, than they could ever learn from school or those boring parents of theirs. That's what he did with me when I first met him. I never even knew I was learning anything useful, at first. I thought it was all in fun. But before the fun was so much hell…

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Author's Note: The German used here is modern German, not the dialect that would have existed at the time this scene took place. The same is true for the Arabic.

The Middle English, though very similar to German, is a bit different.

22 September 1212  
Algiers, Algeria  
Palace of the warlord, Mahmoud Rahme

The seven starving boys shivered in their cell, clutching their ragged clothing, and each other, close to them for warmth. Steam rose from their shivering bodies and they tried to huddle even closer. One of the younger boys, barely eleven by now, his eyes red from crying though he had no more tears left, looked despairingly at his blond cellmate.

_"Was ist mit uns passiert, Nikolas? Wie hat Gott das geschehen lassen?"_ (What happened to us, Nikolas? How did God let this happen?)

The blond boy, two years older than the crying boy, smiled despite his misery. He spoke German, the only language the boys had in common. _"Hab Vertrauen, Hammond. Das ist nicht von Gott. Das ist der Teufel. Gott wird in unserem Namen eingreifen. Er wird uns retten."_ (Have faith. This is not of God. This is the Devil. God will intervene on our behalf. He will save us.)

The other boys nodded. How could it not be true? Didn't Scripture speak of the Lord saving those who believed in Him exactly when they were at their worst? Well, this was certainly it, at least for the seven of them.

They had begun as a force of thousands, perhaps even twenty thousand, spellbound by the story Nikolas had told of a vision of retaking the holy land of Palestine. Not by force, it was said, but by converting the Muslims there to Christianity, and not with an army of knights, but an army of children. Convinced of this truth, children from all around joined Nikolas and began to march en route to Genoa, Italy. Along the way Nikolas promised they would find either transportation to Palestine or a miraculous parting of the waters of the Mediterranean. During the journey, the children were constantly attacked - and many were killed or kidnapped - by marauders and slave merchants. Desertion became commonplace. Sleeping in huddled piles as they traversed the hazardous passes of the Alps, untold numbers of German youngsters became casualties of the weather - falling asleep never to wake again - or plummeted down the mountain sides as they walked the narrow paths. Finally, upon reaching Genoa, the five thousand remaining children found they had no transportation at all. The waters had not parted for them to pass. Disillusioned, many reluctantly began the arduous return march back to their homes - less than a third of their original number ever returned home. A few accepted residence in Genoa or, lost, settled somewhere along the way back home..

Seven of the remaining children, one of them, the dark-haired one, being particularly skilled with languages and also quite charismatic, talked a sailor into taking them to Palestine. Their enthusiasm restored, they set sail a week after arriving in Genoa, still fervent in their belief that their faith could conquer all. As the African coast came into view, the boys soon realized they had not been taken to Palestine but to Algiers. The full nature of their betrayal did not become clear until they were dragged from the boat and promptly sold to a Muslim slave master.

Life instantly became immeasurably cruel for the young crusaders. They were subjected to endless derision as infidels, the Arabic words, _"'Ayn hdha al'ilh lak alana?"_ (Where is this mighty God of yours now?) being burned forever into their memories. Two weeks of this treatment had driven the boys to the brink. Now shadows of their former selves, they rocked slowly, repeating what had become a ritual for each of them. As a rejection of the Arabic names they had been given, they chanted their Christian names to themselves like a mantra.

One of the boys, a dark-haired, emaciated child of fourteen, though he appeared younger now, spoke softly in his native tongue, that of English, though to the others, it sounded much like their own native German. _"Ich bien Jonatan Cristofre Fayrebancs. Ich bien nought Yahya. Ich bien Jonatan Cristofre Fayrebancs."_ (I am Jonatan Cristofre Fayrebancs. I am not _Yahya_. I am Jonatan Cristofre Fayrebancs.)

Ten minutes into their chanting, the boys stopped to pray together. Nikolas led them, beseeching God for salvation from their predicament. He had only been whispering his prayer for a few seconds when keys jingled in the cell door. The boys broke apart and, still on their knees, eyed the door as it was pushed open. Were they bringing food? Water? Or more torment?

Their captor - he would call himself their master - Mahmoud Rahme stepped through the doorway. In passable German, Rahme spoke to his prisoners. _"Haben meine Sklaven schon ihre Lektion gelernt? Wirst du dem einen wahren Gott gestehen und dass Muhammad sein Prophet ist?"_ (Have my slaves learned their lesson yet? Will you confess to the one true God and that Muhammad is his Prophet?) Rahme stood, his hands on his hips, and awaited an answer.

Slowly, Nikolas tried to stand on shaky legs. He lacked the strength. Jonatan patted his shoulder and stood for him. Looking into the eyes of each boy, he received the answer he expected. He turned to glare into Rahme's dark face with, starving or not, fire in his eyes.

_"Noch nie. Es gibt nur einen Gott und sein Name ist Jahwe, nicht Allah."_ (Never. There is only one God and his name is Yahweh, not Allah.)

Rahme's hands dropped to his sides, the shock of the boy's blasphemous statement apparent. His face darkened further with rage. His eyes flickered to the other children.

_"Spricht dieser Junge auch für Sie alle?"_ (Does this boy speak for all of you, as well?)

_"Ja, tut er,"_ (Yes, he does,) said Nikolas immediately.

_"Ja,"_ (Yes,) agreed the other boys down the line, even Hammond.

His face reddening all the more, Rahme turned away and motioned for his guards. He stormed out without a word. The room was soon filled with large men. They each seized a child and dragged each of them, kicking and struggling, from the cell.

Rahme led them up a flight of stairs and into the courtyard of his palace. The guards threw the boys down to the ground. The children rose to their knees and covered their eyes. They had not seen sunlight in a fortnight. Before them was a large fountain spewing water high into the sky. The sight of it made the ache of their thirst worsen. Rahme stood between it and them. He addressed the boys with his arms spread wide.

_"Sie wurden hierher gebracht und mir als Sklaven verkauft. Ich habe dir Freiheit durch den Islam angeboten, wenn du dich nur dem Islam unterwerfen würdest. Jetzt gebe ich dir durch meine Barmherzigkeit und die Barmherzigkeit des allmächtigen Allah diese letzte Chance. Trotz der Gotteslästerung, die Ihr Freund ausgesprochen hat, erlaube ich Ihnen, von diesem Brunnen zu trinken, wenn Sie gestehen, dass Allah der einzig wahre Gott und Mohammed sein Prophet ist. Sie werden dann keine Sklaven mehr sein, sondern freie Jungen im Dienst Allahs. Sprechen Sie jetzt, jeder von Ihnen."_ (You were brought here and sold to me as slaves. I have offered you freedom through Islam, if you would only submit to it. Now, through my mercy and the mercy of almighty Allah, I give you this one last chance. Despite the blasphemy spoken by your friend, if you confess that Allah is the one true God and Muhammad is his Prophet, I will allow you to drink from this fountain. You will then no longer be slaves but free boys in the service of Allah. Speak now, each of you.)

Rahme paused to let his words sink in. After thirty seconds, he approached Emil, the first boy in the line. Emil's eyes were downcast. Using the weighted end of his walking stick, Rahme tilted the boy's head up by the chin. _"Sprechen,"_ (Speak,) he ordered.

Emil gulped once, his eyes going to the flowing waters and the locking onto Rahme. He then firmly said, _"Nein."_ (No.)

Rahme removed his stick from the boy's chin and moved on to Luka. _"Nein."_ Nikolas was next. His answer was the same. Next came Hammond. The boy looked hungrily at the water for a few brief seconds before turning his eyes up to Rahme and giving the same answer as the others. Rahme continued down the line until he reached Jonatan. He received another negative reply.

Nodding, Rahme placed the end of his stick on Jonatan's shoulder. _"Lays hdha wahid,"_ (Not this one,) he said to the men behind the boys.

Wondering what had just been said, Jonatan glanced up at Rahme. _"Was? Was ist los?"_ (What? What is happening?) he demanded.

Rahme's order became all too clear in seconds. Six men moved forward behind the other boys rapidly, each seizing a child under the arms and lifting him bodily from the ground. They began to walk toward the fountain.

As the men proceeded, Rahme bellowed to them, _"Ich werde dir trotzdem was zu trinken geben. Seht, wie barmherzig ich bin."_ (I will give you a drink anyway. See how merciful I am.) The man's sizable belly shook with laughter.

_"Nein!"_ (No!) begged Jonatan, rising to unsteady feet and taking Rahme's sleeve.

Rahme glared at his slave, his eyes dark. _"Jetzt gestehen. Und sie leben."_ (Confess now. And they live.)

_"Nein,"_ (No,) screamed Nikolas. _"Tu es nicht. Je."_ (Don't do it. Ever.)

Jonatan never heard another word from him or the other boys. The guards submerged half of their bodies into the fountain and held them there. Jonatan slumped back to his knees, sobbing, screaming, his enraged eyes transfixed on the kicking legs of his crusader compatriots…until they kicked no more.

_"'Aeadah 'iilaa zinzanatih,"_ (Take him back to his cell,) muttered Rahme, giving the crying boy a kick before walking away. _"Ramy alakharin ealaa alhawiati."_ (Throw the others over the cliff.)

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02 October 1212  
Algiers, Algeria  
Palace of the warlord, Mamoud Rahme

The crude stone floor cut his bare legs and feet as Rahme dragged him across them. All the while he fought tenaciously, pleaded fervently, trying in vain to escape the tortures he knew awaited him. As his master threw him roughly to the floor and spoke to the blacksmith in Arabic, the young Christian raised himself painfully to his knees, bringing tentative fingers to his bleeding brow, the result of his latest resistance to Rahme's attempts to convert him to Islam. The infuriated man had thrown a dagger at him in his rage, the keen edge of the blade digging cruelly into his flesh above the left eye. All the starving boy saw was his own blood on his face, his hands, his arms, his ragged clothes. Surely, he was already dying. It would be a blessed relief after the hell he had already lived.

Rahme's blacksmith nodded to his master and began stroking his fire. He took something from his master's hand, grasping it in a set of long tongs. Jonatan could not see what the object was; the smith's massive back was to him. Rahme grinned malevolently at the boy. Jonatan, too weak to move, stared at the fire, his eyes wide with fear. The smith nodded at his master and reached for the tongs. Rahme touched his arm, speaking softly and gesturing toward Jonatan. With another nod, the large man waved to an assistant and then, with only a few steps, stood behind the boy. Placing powerful arms around his waist and right arm, the smith immobilized Jonatan with little effort. The wiry assistant grinned evilly as he knelt beside the tiny slave. He had seen this before...and enjoyed watching it. Taking the boy's left wrist roughly, he placed the hand palm up on a nearby anvil; his other hand keeping the child's fingers flat against the black metal. Chuckling to himself as the boy suddenly realized what was about to happen and began to struggle, to plead, the assistant pressed down harder on the outstretched digits, grinding them into the anvil. A knuckle snapped beneath the pressure, eliciting a yelping sob from the youth's lips.

Back at the smith's fire, Rahme took hold of the tongs and lifted them from the flame. Between the clamps, a small golden coin rested. The Arab slave master approached his stubborn captive, sadistic glee on his face. As he held the coin over Jonatan's helpless palm, he looked the boy in the eye. _"Nun, junger Ungläubiger, wirst du die Hitze von Allahs Zorn spüren. die Strafe für Ihre Hartnäckigkeit."_ (Now, young infidel, you will feel the heat of Allah's wrath; the punishment for your stubbornness.)

With those words, he dropped the coin. The sizzle of burning flesh mingled with the maniacal laughter of three men and the white-hot screeching of a terrified boy. They released him after endless moments, allowing him to crumple to the floor in a moaning heap, cradling his mutilated hand.

The screaming child raised his hand, examining it as closely as his tear-filled eyes would allow. He could make out the impression of Satan's coin quite clearly, its damning markings burned forever into his palm. So deep was the impression that one versed in Arabic script could read the inscriptions on the coin. There were even tiny markings on a few of the pads of his fingertips where his fingers had involuntarily closed over the top over the coin. Jonatan shut his eyes again, fighting back the tears. His bleeding, moaning body twitched in agony on the floor.

The blacksmith's assistant took hold of him, pressing him down on his stomach as the larger man tore his threadbare clothing from his emaciated frame. Jonatan could smell Rahme's breath as the slave master laughingly and viciously raped his infidel property. Both of the other men then took their turns with the boy, as well; all three of them turning deaf ears to his pleas for mercy which would never come.

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12 October 1212  
Algiers, Algeria  
Palace of the warlord, Mamoud Rahme

Jonatan awoke to the sound of keys in the lock. He had lost track of the days but he desperately hoped it was the third - or was it the fourth - day when they typically gave him some manner of gruel to eat. Anything to alleviate the painful gnawing in his stomach.

Or it may have been a result from all of the rapes. That seemed to be Rahme's and the guards' favorite activity now. Rahme had given the men free access to the obstinate Christian boy in the hopes the constant abuse might break him. Though weak, he fought them every time. So much sometimes that they had to bring in others to hold him down.

Now, nude, freezing, and starving, Jonatan struggled to his feet and awaited what was to come through the door. It swung open slowly to reveal Rahme, a beaming smile on the man's fat face. He stepped into the cell and put his hands on his hips. He laughed at the boy in front of him.

_"Heute ist ein guter Tag, kleine Ungläubige. Sie werden uns heute Morgen alle freuen,"_ (Today is a good day, little infidel. You are going to pleasure all of us this morning,) he bellowed.

Jonatan frowned in confusion. _Uns?_ (Us?) he thought. He soon got the answer to his barely formed question as nine other men entered the cell behind Rahme. From their manner of dress, they were not the typical rabbel with whom he had been shared before. Rahme began to speak in Arabic. Jonatan assumed he was explaining who he was to the men. They all grinned as they admired his slim form.

_"Der Meister zuerst,"_ (The master first,) declared Rahme, stepping forward and taking Jonatan's arm. Jonatan kicked at the man's shin, but the attack was evaded with a laugh. The boy was thrown to the floor and pinned by Rahme's body. Jonatan sobbed.

_"Nein!"_ (No!)

Rahme ignored him. So did the other nine men as they each took their turns with him. Between some of the attacks came beatings, the most severe he could recall. Some of the men even went at him a second or a third time. All Jonatan knew was the pain and violation seemed to last for hours. When it finally ended, he was left bleeding and crying on the floor. Ten chuckling men stood over him.

Rahme spat at the boy, the saliva landing on Jonatan's neck. He followed up with a kick to Jonatan's ribs.

_"Aufstehen,"_ (Get up,) Rahme demanded. Jonatan slowly drew himself up to his knees. Rahme slapped him across the face. _"Aufstehen,"_ he repeated. The boy raised himself on weakened legs. Blood dripped down his slender legs, pooling on the stone floor.

Rahme turned to the other men and spoke at length in Arabic. Jonatan could only make out snatches of what he said, but he thought he could make out the basics of it. Based on the smiles and nods from the others, the man was going to demand a confession again.

Finally, Rahme faced Jonatan again, smiled, and began to speak in a kind voice. He spoke in German, as usual. _"Nun, junger Ungläubiger, sicherlich haben Sie zu diesem Zeitpunkt den Fehler Ihrer Wege gesehen. Bekenne jetzt, dass es nur einen Gott gibt, dass sein Name Allah ist und dass sein einziger wahrer Prophet Mohammed ist, und all dies wird enden. Wir können einen Gläubigen nicht so behandeln. Dies ist nur das Leben der Ungläubigen, wie sie es verdienen, denn sie sind nur ein Hab und Gut im Vergleich zu den Gläubigen in den Augen Allahs. Also, gestehe jetzt und dein Schmerz wird enden. Komm jetzt als Gläubiger zu mir."_ (Now, young infidel, surely by this point you have seen the error of your ways. Confess now that there is only one God, that his name is Allah, and that his one true Prophet is Muhammad, and all this will end. We cannot treat a believer in such a way. Such is only the life of infidels, as they deserve, for they are but chattel compared to believers in the eyes of Allah. So, confess now and your pain will end. Come to me now, as a believer.)

Jonatan swayed on his weak limbs, not sure how much longer he could stand. He could feel blood oozing from practically everywhere on his body. His hair was caked with it. His right eye was swollen shut. He was fairly certain his left arm was broken below the elbow. His head and rectum were on fire. One of the men had even twisted his testicles so hard he thought they might no longer be there. He did not look down to check.

Jonatan squinted with his one working eye, looking to his left. He wasn't quite sure of it, but he thought he saw a kindly, bearded man in simple robes standing next to him. The man was smiling at him and resting a comforting hand on his shoulder. Jonatan felt new strength surge through him. With great effort, he straightened himself and looked into Rahme's eyes. The boy smiled at his captor. Rahme smiled back, thinking he had finally broken his Christian slave.

_"Noch nie,"_ (Never,) uttered Jonatan through his swollen lips.

Rahme was incensed. _"Du wirst es immer noch nicht glauben?"_ (Still you will not believe?) he screeched, lashing out with his walking stick. The weighted end of it smashed into Jonatan's left temple with a loud crack. The boy collapsed without fanfare. His body twitched once, twice, and was still.

Turning away in fury, Rahme motioned to a guard. _"Ramiuh ealaa alhawiati. Daeah yandam 'iilaa 'asdiqayih."_ (Throw him over the cliff. Let him join his friends.)

xxxxxxxxxx

13 October 1212  
Algiers, Algeria

Jonatan awoke again at the base of the cliff beneath Rahme's house. His confusion was paramount. How was he still alive? Or was he? The sight of vultures circling overhead indicated he might not be. He sat up slowly, the pain in his head still blaring. He put his left hand to his temple automatically, willing the pain to decrease.

He started, eyeing the limb. Hadn't it been broken earlier? He flexed his fingers. There was no pain there. He ran his right hand along the forearm. Still no pain. The arm had healed overnight. Feeling a bit self-conscious even though no one was around to see him do it, he reached back and felt his rectum and then his testicles. Nothing seemed torn or out of place. He was still crusted in his own blood and had sand all over him, but he seemed to be fine otherwise. He tilted his head up to peer at the cliff face above him. It was at least a two hundred meter drop. The boy grinned. This must be the work of God himself. What other reason could there be? How else could he have healed from all these horrible wounds and survived such a fall?

Laughing to himself, Jonatan stood shakily and made his way to the nearby surf. He doused himself in the water, washing away the filth of blood and other nasty fluids that permeated his body. He desperately wanted to drink from the water around him but knew that would only lead to greater thirst. His father had taught him about sailors making such mistakes.

Scrubbing his hair, he noticed the smell of bread as well as sea salt in the air. He stood in the waist-deep water and looked around. There was a village of mud-brick homes further up the coast, just barely visible from where he stood. Despite the Biblical injunction against it, he wondered if he could sneak into the place and steal some food. He was ravenous. His hunger, in fact, seemed tenfold what it had been when he was in his cell. Jonatan glanced down at his naked body and laughed again. Perhaps he should consider finding some clothes, as well.

Once he was satisfied with his bath, Jonatan made his way toward the village. He used the outcroppings of rocks for concealment as best he could along the way. They did not bring him very far. There was still a two hundred meter expanse of open ground he had to cover before he could even reach the first of the huts, let alone any of them that might have food. And what if one of the villagers saw him? What would they do to him then? He sat next to the rocks and thought. Should he wait until night fell? Could he wait that long? How long had it been since he had last eaten? From the grumbling in his stomach, he knew it had been many days.

A sound chilled Jonatan's bones. It was one that normally would have delighted him, except today. The laughter of other children. Placing his hands on the rocks above him, Jonatan eased his head up to peer over them. He dropped down quickly. Two boys were running in his direction.

"Sard!" (the Middle English equivalent of fuck), cursed Jonatan, squeezing himself into as small a form as he could among the stones.

One of the boys came bounding over the rocks mere heartbeats later. He immediately turned to call out to his friend, a bright smile on his face. The child's eyes, as if drawn there, fell instantly upon Jonatan. His smile faded only slightly as he discerned the terrified boy before him. He shouted out to his friend.

_"Faysal , adhhab bieida. Hunak kawbirana huna."_ (Feisal, go away. There is a cobra here.)

Jonatan stared inquisitively at the young boy as he heard a squeal of fear just behind him and the sound of another child running away. The boy before him, who appeared to be about nine years old, smiled at him. He wore a long, slender, one-piece grey cotton shirt with long sleeves, to Jonatan it almost looked like a dress, that hung almost to his ankles. The garment, strangely, had pockets at the hips as if it were designed to be pants, as well. He also wore a short, rounded grey skullcap.

_"'IIinah bikhayra. 'Anah yakhaf min althaeabina,"_ (It's okay. He's afraid of snakes,) assured the child. He stepped closer. _"La tukhf. Tueal 'iilaa huna. Ln 'awdhik. 'Iinaa Hani."_ (Don't be afraid. Come here. I won't hurt you. I'm Hani.) The boy held out his hand as he climbed the rocks.

Jonatan had learned far more Arabic than he had let on while he had been a prisoner. In fact, he had always had a penchant for picking up languages quickly. While Hani's words were fast and there were a few which Jonatan did not understand, he could make out most of what the boy had said. He took the boy's hand and slowly stood.

_"'Iinaa Junatanin,"_ (I am Jonatan,) he said by way of introduction.

_"'Ayn hi malabisak?"_ (Where are your clothes?) Hani asked him innocently. He looked at Jonatan as if there was no shame in the act, just a curiosity.

_"Lays laday 'ay,"_ (I don't have any,) Jonatan replied simply.

Hani clicked his tongue twice. Jonatan took the sound to be the Arabic equivalent of a "tut tut."

Nodding, Hani said, _"Thuma sa'ahsul ealaa bed laka. Hal 'ant juean?"_ (Then I will get some for you. Are you hungry?)

Jonatan nodded. _"Na'am. Lilghayat. Lkn la yumkinuni alsamah li'ayi shakhs biruyati."_ (Yes. Very. But I cannot let anyone see me.)

Hani smiled again and patted Jonatan's arm. _"La tuqaliq. Aintazar huna."_ (Don't worry. Wait here.)

_"Shukraan,"_ (Thank you,) said Jonatan, slipping back into his stony hiding place. Hani smiled again and scampered off on his sandaled feet.

Hani returned an hour later clutching a bundle under one arm and a pair of sandals in his other hand. His usual smile was still affixed to his lips. It may have even grown. He explained to Jonatan, twice since Jonatan had to ask him to slow down, that he had come back by way of a more circuitous route in order to avoid detection. He had brought back a _thawb_, which Jonatan learned was the name of the long shirt Hani wore, a _taqiyah_, the skullcap Hani wore, and_ alnaeal_ \- sandals. In addition to those items, he had brought a _shemagh_ cloth which Jonatan could wrap around his face, if he chose. Hani even offered to show him how to wrap it properly so it would appear normal to those in the village.

_"Ln tahtajaha,"_ (You won't need it,) assured Hani. _"Bishartik muzlimatin. Sawf takun bikhayrin."_ (Your skin is dark. You will be fine.)

Jonatan looked at his arm. He grinned. He had always had a darker skin tone than others in his native England. Even when he and his parents had moved to Germany, with its slightly more diverse ethnicities, he had stood out for being as dark as he was. Now it would be useful. He was not as brown as Hani but he was nowhere near as pale as an Englishman. Just during his time as Rahme's prisoner, he had noticed a variety of skin tones. He nodded to Hani. He should be okay.

He put on the clothes. They felt odd but it was still nice to be wearing anything at all. The thawb was loose on his slim body, but Hani said it was supposed to be that way to let the air flow. It was a hot country, after all. The _taqiyah_ was just the slightest bit tight on his head. He smiled. A haircut would take care of that. The sandals were a perfect fit. As a finale, Jonatan simply wrapped the _shemagh_ once around his neck like he had seen some other men do. He stood for Hani's assessment. The boy smiled again.

_"'Ant jayd."_ (You are good.) Hopping up from the sand and dusting off his backside, Hani grabbed Jonatan's hand and said, _"Saena nahsul ealaa bed altaeam."_ (Let's get you some food.)

Hesitating, Jonatan asked, _"'Iilaa 'ayn nahn dhahibun?"_ (Where are we going?)

Hani grinned again and pulled at his hand. _"'Iilaa manzali. La tuqaliq."_ (To my house. Don't worry.)

They took the route Hani had used to approach the second time. It did take quite a bit more time than crossing the open ground, but it made Jonatan feel much better. Once they did enter the village, Jonatan realized his concerns were mostly unfounded. Dressed as he was and with a happily chattering Hani holding his hand, no one gave him a second glance.

Hani pulled him to a two-room mud brick home. They stopped to remove their sandals before entering. Once inside, Hani called out to his mother and father that he was home. Jonatan noted, thankfully, that he did not announce that he had brought company. A woman appeared first. Her face turned from exuberant over the return of her son to quizzical regarding her new guest.

_"Sabahu al-khair,"_ (Good morning,) she said politely. Since Jonatan was a child rather than an adult, she did not greet him with the more formal, _"Alsalam ealaykum,"_ (Peace be upon you,) like she would adult Muslims.

Hani immediately chirped back a rapid explanation of who Jonatan was. _"Umi, qabalat hdha alsabia bijiwar almuhiti. Lm yakun ladayh mulabis wahu jayie lilghaya. Hal yumkinuna musaeadatah?"_ (Momma, I met this boy by the ocean. He had no clothes and he is very hungry. Can we help him?)

Hani's mother's face contorted in concern, partially for the state of the hungry boy, but also something else. She asked Hani where Jonatan got his clothes. Hani told her he got them from the neighbor boy, Ajmal. Hani assured her that Ajmal had given Hani the clothes. They were not stolen. Jonatan wondered how much Hani had told this boy, Ajmal, in order to obtain the clothes. Goosebumps sprouted all over his body as he listened. Perhaps sensing Jonatan's concern, Hani looked up at him and squeezed his hand.

_"La tuqaliq. 'Ajmal ln yukhbir 'ahadanaan."_ (Don't worry. Ajmal won't tell anyone.)

A slender man entered the room, wiping his hands on a cloth. Hani repeated his tale for the man. Jonatan was beginning to feel like an object on display. The man listened to the entire account before simply asking his guest's name.

_""'Iinaa Junatanin, sayidi almuhtaram."_ (I am Jonatan, sir.)

The man waved his hand at the formality. _"'Atasil bi Hamid."_ (Call me Hamid.) He gestured to his wife. _"Hadha hu 'Uwma."_ (This is Oma.) Indicating the pillows around the perimeter of the house, he added, _"'Ajlis latafa."_ (Please sit.)

At this, Oma smiled and said she was already preparing lunch. She would let them know when it was ready. She left the room as Hamid sat against a side wall. Jonatan did the same; Hani plopped down next to him and took his hand again. Hamid regarded his youthful guest with a kind eye. After a brief silence, he spoke.

_"'Ant last min huna. Hadathani ean nafsik."_ (You are not from here. Tell me about yourself.)

Jonatan blushed. He was not sure if his knowledge of the language would permit him to tell the full story of how he, an English child of Catholic missionaries in a German town, wound up sitting in an Arab's home. He apologized for this up front. Hamid smiled and asked him to try. Over the next twenty minutes, in his best pidgin Arabic, Jonatan informed Hamid and Hani of his travels over the last months. He kept the parts about his imprisonment with Rahme toned down for the sake of Hani. He could tell, though, from Hamid's expression that the man was completely familiar with the warlord's habits.

_"Laqad faeal hdha li."_ (He did this to me.) Jonatan held out the palm of his left hand for the two of them to see. Hani gasped in horror at the sight.

_"Rahmi hu hathalatun,"_ (Rahme is scum,) uttered Hamid, his face reddening as he spit on the floor. _"Radi Allah eanha."_ (May Allah damn him.)

Oma called to say it was time to eat. Jonatan made to move but noticed that only Hamid moved. Hani gripped Jonatan's hand and indicated he, as the guest, should sit. Hamid brought a small table from against the wall and set it in the middle of the room. He then gathered pillows and laid them around the table. Oma entered and began setting bowls and small plates on the table. Jonatan just watched. In minutes, there was vegetable and meat stew, a plate stacked high with some sort of round flat bread, and a bowl of something he couldn't identify. There was also a carafe of some kind of dark beverage as well as small cups next to each plate. Hamid called the boys to the table.

Jonatan sat and eyed each dish curiously. He also watched the family's pre-meal routine with interest. They held a prayer before their meal just like Christians did. He watched how they ate and imitated them, noticing that they only ate with their right hands. They also did not look at each other very often while eating.

Jonatan apologized for his lack of knowledge about the dishes, but Oma encouraged him to ask questions. The small steamed, gelatinous balls were called couscous. The hot drink she called chai and suggested drinking it with a lot of sugar. Jonatan had not tasted sugar before and found he enjoyed it immensely. The flatbread was called _Khubz-ftir_. Jonatan cleared his plate and asked if it was permissible to have more. Oma laughed and insisted that he eat until he was satisfied.

After the meal, Jonatan felt much better but somewhat apologetic for eating as much as he had. He expressed this to Hamid and Oma. He was sure they were a poor family, though he did not say this, and most likely could not afford to have fed him like that. Both of them waved him off with a smile and laughed, saying they were glad, as hosts, to have been able to do so.

Later, Hamid sat on stools with Jonatan behind the house with another small glass of sweetened chai each and, in slow Arabic, asked what he wanted to do next. Hani no longer wanted to play games inside and had gone to bed. Jonatan knew he could speak freer now. He looked at the older man and spoke truthfully. He wanted to go home. Hamid nodded, saying it was only natural. He then wondered how that could come to pass. Jonatan nodded and sipped his chai.

After a moment of silence, Hamid spoke. He had a friend who was the captain of a cargo ship which often went north. Hamid didn't know where the ships landed, though. It was a start, at least, Hamid thought. He said he would ask his friend, Ahmed, about obtaining passage for Jonatan on the ship. Jonatan expressed his concerns immediately. He had been betrayed once before by sailors. He did not want to face that possibility again. Hamid guaranteed him that neither Hamid nor anyone else on the crew were that type of man. He trusted Ahmed with his life, would trust him with Hani's life. Jonatan could do the same.


	6. I Gave Up Childish Ways

"Now I know, I know in part;  
Then I shall know fully;  
Even as I have been  
Fully known.  
I have been fully known."

"Love Never Ends" - The Corner Room (based on 1 Corinthians, verses 11 through 13)

21 October 1212  
Naples, Italy

Jonatan stepped onto dry land for the first time in nearly five days. As a cabin boy for Ahmed, he had been busier than he had expected. He had run errands for the captain, helped the cook in the ship's kitchen and carried buckets of food from the ship's kitchen to the forecastle where the ordinary seamen ate. He had run from one end of the ship to the other carrying messages and become familiar with the sails, lines and ropes and the use of each in all sorts of weather. He'd had to scramble up the rigging into the yards whenever the sails had to be trimmed. He'd even had to occasionally stand watch like other crewmen or act as helmsman in good weather, holding the wheel to keep the ship steady on her course.

Ahmed had asked Jonatan if he was interested in staying on for another voyage, but Jonatan had politely declined. He very much wanted to keep on travelling back toward home. Ahmed had smiled and thanked him. He had even given him a small bonus to the paltry salary he had earned during the trip. Jonatan had offered it back in exchange for the extra food he had convinced the cook to give him every night. Ahmed laughed again and gave him another coin for his honesty.

Now, Jonatan was alone. He had just the clothes on his back, Western attire this time, another gift from Ahmed, and the money in his pocket. How was he going to get from Naples all the way back to Koln (Cologne)? He had asked Ahmed about this problem but the man's suggestion of hiring a guide wouldn't work. Jonatan did not have enough money for that. Jonatan stood near the pier, watching the activity around the boats and wondering what he should do. He supposed he could find work in town for a while and save money to hire a guide. Perhaps that could work.

He did not get much farther in his pontification. A strange, electric sensation sizzled along his spine and ended in his head. It thrummed similarly to a headache, but not quite. He felt no pain, only an odd sort of presence in his mind. It still made him slightly dizzy, though. He reached for a nearby pole for support and looked around for a point to focus his vision. His eyes came to rest on a man about fifteen meters away. Queerly, the man was looking back at him. The man approached and spoke to him.

_"Sono Janof Feke. E chi sei tu?"_

Jonatan could remember only a few words of Italian from the brief time he had spent marching through the country months ago. He could make out nothing of what the man said. Since his father had taught him Latin, they had a similar ring to them, but still made no sense to him. He shook his head at the man.

_"Sprechen Sie Deutch, mein Herr?"_ (Do you speak German, sir?) he asked.

The man nodded. _"Ich bin Janof Feke. Und wer bist du?"_ (I am Janof Feke. And who are you?)

Jonatan smiled at the man and replied, _"Ich bin Jonatan Fayrebancs. Guten Tag."_ (I am Jonatan Fayrebancs. Good day.) Jonatan held out his hand to the man.

Feke took the boy's hand and shook it. _"Dies muss Ihr erstes Mal sein, dass Sie einen von uns wahrnehmen ... zumindest aufgrund Ihrer Reaktion."_ (This must be your first time sensing one of us...at least based on your reaction.)

Jonatan's smile faded somewhat as he looked into the man's dark eyes. _"Erstes Mal?"_ (First time?) he asked.

Feke put a gentle hand on the boy's shoulder. _"Komm mit mir. Wir haben viel zu besprechen."_ (Come with me. We have much to discuss.)

They went to a nearby pub and had lunch. Feke was kind enough to buy for both of them. Jonatan had not had pork for so long that the taste of the sausage was almost foul to him. He ate it anyway. The ale washed away the taste of it. Feke waited until Jonatan had a second stein in front of him before beginning his explanation of what had happened earlier. In whispered tones, he told Jonatan everything. Jonatan stared at him wide-eyed.

_"Unsterblich?"_ (Immortal?) he asked. _"Wie kann das sein?"_ (How can that be?)

_"Niemand weiß, aber es ist,"_ (No one knows, but it is,) replied Feke. _"Und du bist einer."_ (And you are one.)

Jonatan sat back on his bench seat and thought deeply. So he had not been saved by God when he woke up at the bottom of the cliff? He lived because he was immortal? Well, maybe that was what God intended anyway. But, wait…

_"Du hast gesagt, ich werde nie erwachsen werden?"_ (You said I will never grow up?)

_"Das ist richtig."_ (That is right.)

_"Und die Leute werden versuchen, mich zu töten?"_ (And people will try to kill me?)

_"Ja."_ (Yes.)

_"Indem ich meinen Kopf abschneide?"_ (By cutting off my head?)

_"Ja."_ (Yes.)

Jonatan groaned and put his head down on crossed arms. He then sat up and drank deeply from his cup of ale.

_"Ich weiß nicht, ob ich damit leben kann,"_ (I don't know if I can live with this,) he stated seriously.

_"Sie können,"_ (You can,) grinned Feke. _"Das machen wir alle."_ (We all do.)

Feke then asked Jonatan what he had been intending to do before they had met. Jonatan told him he wanted to go to Koln. Feke whistled. He commented that it would be a long journey and that crossing the Alps would be very difficult. Jonatan informed him that he had done it before. Feke nodded, saying he believed Jonatan was just the type of boy who could complete such a trek. He offered to accompany him.

_"Warum würden Sie mit mir gehen wollen?"_ (Why would you want to accompany me?) the boy asked.

With a shrug, Feke replied, _"Meistens, um jemanden zu haben, der mir hilft, auf den Rücken zu schauen. Da ist jemand nach mir."_ (Mostly, to have someone to help watch my back. There is someone after me.) Jonatan's eyes narrowed as he continued. _"Ich brauche genauso viel Hilfe wie dich."_ (I need help just as much as you do.)

_"Warum ist jemand nachdem Sie?"_ (Why is someone after you?)

Feke leaned forward. _"Dieser Mann, Luca Bianchi, ist ein weiterer Unsterblicher. Er will meinen Kopf. Ich glaube nicht, dass ich ihn schlagen kann. Also gehe ich."_ (This man, Luca Bianchi, is another Immortal. He wants my head. I don't think I can beat him. So I am leaving.) He spread his arms wide. _"Ich möchte leben. So einfach ist das."_ (I want to live. It's as simple as that.)

Jonatan nodded. He could understand the desire to live. He agreed to Feke's offer. He asked when they would set out. Feke said they would leave once they finished their meal. He had a small cart and a horse which would aid in their departure. Jonatan smiled. This was better than he had hoped. He had envisioned himself walking north all the way to Kӧln. Riding in a cart was much better.

Feke then added that his destination, Florence, was nearly one hundred leagues away and it would take them about four weeks to travel that distance. Jonatan's face fell. He had somehow envisioned a horse being able to travel faster than that. He didn't know for sure himself, though. He had never ridden a horse before. At best, he had walked beside or ridden in ox-driven carts and that was all. Surely a horse was faster than an ox.

He asked Feke if there was a faster way to reach Florence. Feke admitted sailing up to Pisa would cut several weeks off their trip - if they sold the horse and cart and worked as crewmen on the ship during the voyage - and be in Pisa in three days, but they would then have to walk from Pisa to Florence. Jonatan asked how far they would need to walk. Twenty leagues, Feke replied. Jonatan smiled at the man. They could easily walk that distance in four days. If they took a boat and then walked, they could be in Florence in a week instead of four.

Feke blinked, considering the matter. He admitted he had last seen Luca Bianchi three weeks before in a neighboring town and had spent the previous twenty days traveling circuitously to hide from the man. He was sure Bianchi was only a day or two behind him at any point. The prospect of getting so far of him now was too good to pass up. Telling Jonatan he had just earned another cup of ale, he agreed to the plan.

xxxxxxxxxx

29 October 1212  
Florence, Italy

Feke did not actually live in the city proper of Florence. He had a small hut on the outskirts of it, situated in the forest half a league south of the city walls. After eating a meal just inside the gates, they walked to the hut.

Feke seemed relieved to have finally reached his home. He dropped his few remaining belongings, a sword he had refused to sell along with the horse and cart, a pack, two knives, and a few other items, by the door. He then kicked off his boots before settling into a chair next to a tiny dining table. Jonatan, having far fewer possessions to delay him, wandered through the rest of the tiny house. There were only three rooms, so it did not take him long.

When he came back into the largest room, which served as both a living and cooking area, he asked Feke why there were two bedrooms if he lived alone. Feke laughed and waved a hand, explaining that two years ago he had a woman living with him. At one point they had argued and she had demanded separate sleeping quarters so he had converted the small storage room into a bedroom for her. When they had finally parted ways, he had simply never changed it back.

Jonatan shrugged and said it all worked out for the best since it meant he could have a bedroom for himself, which he had never had before, rather than sleeping alongside Feke or on the floor. Feke nodded in agreement. He said that also, tomorrow after they had broken their fast, he would begin teaching Jonatan the skills he would need to survive as an Immortal, specifically how to fight with a sword.

xxxxxxxxxx

30 October 1212  
Florence, Italy

Breakfast the next morning consisted of fruits and nuts Feke and Jonatan gathered from the surrounding area. It was simple but sufficient for them. Jonatan was nervous about the idea of swordplay. He had never handled anything larger than a table knife before. How was he to learn to use a sword well enough to survive? He admitted his fear to Feke. The man laughed and said all new Immortals started out with such trepidations.

Feke began by giving Jonatan a seax, a large, general-purpose knife, saying it would work for training purposes until they got something better for him. Feke's own sword was strapped around his waist. Drawing the weapon from its sheath, he began with a few basic sword strokes and soothing words, demonstrating the techniques for his student. Jonatan nodded in understanding.

Feke acted out a few more strokes, talking through each one. After the fifth one, he laughed after telling a somewhat dirty joke, his gaze on Jonatan. The boy laughed, as well. Feke's eyes then darkened and his brow furrowed. Twisting his wrist, he brought his sword around in a backstroke toward Jonatan's neck. The young Immortal, seeing the change in the man's expression, stepped back in fear, the cold tip of the blade barely missing him. Jonatan did the only thing he could think to do. He ran.

Jonatan did not pick any particular direction in his flight. He just turned and ran as fast as he could. He soon ascertained he had made a fatal error. To his right was the creek from which they had drawn water earlier in the morning, the forest beyond it. Jonatan was not a strong enough swimmer to make it across to the other side. Ahead of him, extending all the way to the water's edge, was a large outcropping of rocks. To his left was open ground, but flat. Feke, with his longer legs, could easily outrun him if he went that way.

Deciding his only chance was to go for the rocks, Jonatan did his best to run faster. He never ran much in the past, either. He was a missionary's son, after all. He was educated and sheltered, not at all used to excessive exertion. The previous months of walking the Alps en route to Italy with Nikolas, oh so long ago - had nearly killed him. How he had managed to do it back then, he never knew. But he had to do it now or he would surely die, again. He ran.

Reaching the wall of stones, Jonatan began to climb, the seax still clutched in his hand as he went. The pounding of Feke's feet behind him rang in his ears. The boy hissed as the stones cut into his palms and fingertips. He pulled regardless, willing himself up. Reaching a higher, somewhat flatter level, he looked up for his next handhold. He then glanced back. Feke was four meters behind him and already swinging his sword as he ran. Jonatan sprang up, grabbing desperately at the rocks above him. At the same moment, Feke's sword sliced through the boy's right Achilles tendon. Caught in mid-jump by the injury, Jonatan's momentum was thrown off and, instead of going up, he crashed forward, face first, into the rocks in front of him.

Janof Feke laughed at the boy, crumpled on the stones. He was only at shoulder height to the man and still easily within sword distance. This would be a simple kill. The blood in his temples was thundering with expectation of it. Feke raised his blade. Feke realized the thundering was not in his head. It was behind him. He glanced over his shoulder…and cursed just as an electric sensation shook his spine.

Jonatan, curled up in a ball with tears in his eyes, yelped at the shock of the presence of another Immortal approaching. He pushed himself up and turned to find the person. His attention was immediately drawn back to Feke standing right in front of him. The man was turned slightly away from him. In a panic, he swung out with the seax in his hand. The blade cut through a third of Feke's neck, severing skin and muscle easily.

Feke staggered forward, his face turning to look up at Jonatan in shock as blood began to pour down his shirt. Forgetting his sword, he let it drop and brought both hands to the wound in his neck. An awful choking sound escaped from his mouth. Blood began to seep from between his lips.

Emboldened by his first stroke, Jonatan rose up on his knees. Looking directly into Janof Feke's eyes, the boy raised the seax in his hand, supporting it with his other now, and whipped it across horizontally. A primal roar of rage erupted from Jonatan's throat as he delivered the blow. The blade sliced through skin, connecting with Feke's spinal column, snapping it and continuing to cut through muscle and tendons until it exited the other side of the man's neck. Feke's eyes rolled into the back of his skull and he dropped to the ground. His body quivered in massive death throes, his head still connected to his neck by a small strip of skin and muscle in the back. After several seconds, he went still.

Jonatan dropped the bloody blade and slid slowly down the boulder, his fear bleeding away to be replaced by shock. What had he done? He had killed a man. The fifth commandment said, _"Et: Non occides."_ (You shall not kill.) But he had just done it. Was he going to be damned to Hell for it? And why was Feke's body starting to glow?

Jonatan's attention was diverted by the sight of a well-dressed man on a horse slowly approaching. He wondered if he was the other Immortal he had felt. There was no one else around so it must be. Who was he? The black-haired man with a triangular beard peered down at the boy from his horse, but said nothing. Jonatan had no more time to think about who the man was. His world exploded.

Lightning lashed around the terrified boy and plunged into his frail body, throwing him to the ground. He convulsed in agony as the bolts punched mercilessly into him. Surely, this was God's punishment for killing Feke. Jonatan screamed in terror, rolling in the grass to escape the torture. It was no use. The lightning followed him. It continued to pound him again and again until he thought he would burst. He could not even take in another breath to scream. Yes, he thought, he was going to die.

Then it ended. Just as suddenly as the storm had begun, it was over. Gasping for breath, Jonatan pushed himself around onto his back, staring up at the sky. He put one hand on his chest. To his amazement, his heart was still beating. A shadow fell over his eyes. It must be the specter of his own death approaching. He did not see that it was the shadow of the man on the horse. He was ready to die. He was too tired to fight anymore. Closing his eyes, he passed out.

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01 November 1212  
Florence, Italy

The first thing Jonatan realized before he opened his eyes was his ribs were aching. It took him a moment to recognize that meant he was still alive. If that was so, why was he hurting? And why was he bobbing up and down so much? He opened his eyes. And shut them again, flailing involuntarily. He was hanging head down over a horse. Someone, he could only assume it was the well-dressed man, had him thrown over his saddle like a blanket.

He heard a chuckle above him and a hand patted his back. _"Wayke, Fauntekyn. Eu mester nought founden."_

Jonatan winced at the sound of the man's poor English. In a tone somewhat sharper than he intended, he replied, _"Ȝoure Engel bie eisful. Almain."_ (Your English is awful. German.)

The rider apparently took no offence at the boy's statement. With another laugh, he repeated the back pat and said, _"Vorsicht, Kleiner. Du willst nicht fallen."_ (Careful, little one. You don't want to fall.)

Jonatan pushed himself up slightly to relieve the pressure on his ribcage. He turned his head toward the man. In a softer voice, he commented, _"Auf Englisch sagten Sie, ich wollte nicht gefunden werden."_ (In English, you said I didn't want to be found.)

The rider frowned in confusion. _"Habe ich? Nun, es sind zwei Jahrhunderte vergangen, seit ich diese Sprache gesprochen habe."_ (Did I? Well, it has been two centuries since I spoke that language.) He shrugged and said nothing more.

Curious, Jonatan asked him, _"Woher wussten Sie, dass ich Englisch bin?"_ (How did you know I was English?)

This brought a grin to the man's face. _"Du hast im Schlaf geredet,"_ (You were talking in your sleep,) he said.

This time, Jonatan bore the confused expression. _"Ich war? Oh."_ (I was? Oh.) He tried his own shrug but found it difficult to do in his current position. Instead, he added, _"Darf ich mich bitte aufsetzen? Es ist ziemlich schmerzhaft, so über deinem Sattel zu liegen."_ (May I sit up, please? It's quite painful lying across your saddle like this.)

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18 February 1213  
State of Hessia  
Kassel District

The rider was, as Jonatan had begun to suspect, the man Janof Feke had been trying to evade, Luca Bianchi. He inquired now and then about Jonatan's past and how he had come to be paired with such a man as Feke. Jonatan had answered with a question of his own. Aside from the attempt at his head just before Bianchi had arrived, he had had no particular issue with the man. Bianchi said that was because the boy did not know Feke well enough. Janof Feke was a thief and murderer. The house in which they had been staying, in fact, had belonged to a woodcutter, his wife, and two children. Feke had killed them all in order to take the home as his own.

Hearing this, Jonatan sat quietly behind Bianchi for a while as they rode. He then informed Bianchi of everything that had happened since he had met Feke in Naples. Bianchi began to laugh when Jonatan mentioned Feke's belief that Bianchi was still roaming about the area of Naples in search for him.

_"Ach nein,"_ (Oh, no,) Bianchi had explained. _"Ich dachte, er könnte hierher zurückkehren. Er mag Florenz und hat viel Zeit in dieser Gegend verbracht. Ich habe hier drei Wochen vor Ihrer Schiffslandung in Neapel angefangen zu reiten."_ (I thought he might return up here. He likes Florence and has spent a lot of time in this area. I started riding up here three weeks before your ship landing in Naples.)

Jonatan mentioned that Bianchi's statement fit with Feke's last sighting of him and continued his story. When he reached the part about Feke's betrayal, he expressed his confusion. What reason could Feke have had for wanting to kill him?

Bianachi thought briefly before responding. _"Der Teil darüber, dass er jemanden wollte, der ihm hilft, seinen Rücken zu sehen, war wahrscheinlich wahr. Als er einen Ort erreicht hatte, den er für sicher hielt, musste er entschieden haben, dass er dich nicht mehr brauchte."_ (The part about him wanting someone to help him watch his back was likely true. Once he had reached a location that he thought was safe, he must have decided he no longer needed you.)

Upon reaching the next town, Bianchi had rented a room for the next several days and purchased a horse and saddle for the boy. He spent the next four days teaching Jonatan how to ride. Sensing the lad's suspicion of another possible betrayal, especially since he had noticed him sleeping with Feke's seax in his hand, Bianchi offered to let Jonatan keep his weapons on his own little horse.

_"Es sei denn, es kommt eine Zeit, in der ich sie brauche, natürlich. Wie Banditen,"_ (Unless there comes a time that I need them, of course. Like bandits,) he had added, grinning. Jonatan had agreed to this arrangement.

Unasked, Bianchi then purchased provisions and accompanied Jonatan all the way back to Köln. Here, the new Immortal experienced his next heartbreak. On Bianci's suggestion, Jonatan rode into town with his face concealed. Bianchi did all the talking as they rode. Jonatan learned that his parents, believing their son to have left with Nikolas and died along with so many of the other children, had left the Germanic states and returned to England. New missionaries had replaced them a month ago. No one could say just where the Fayrebancs family had gone. Even Jonatan, who had lived in Germany since he was four years old, could not remember exactly where they had lived before. All he could remember was they had once lived in London.

Before the full impact of the revelation could hit the boy, Bianchi turned their horses around and they rode off to another town. There, they took a room. Once inside it, Jonatan's tears began to flow. What could he do now, he wondered. England was weeks or months away. Even then, he had no knowledge of London or where his parents may have gone. To his horror, Bianchi suggested he abandon hope of finding them.

_"Warum sollte ich das tun?"_ (Why should I do that?)

Bianchi's face was composed. He spoke with no tone of spite or intent to hurt. He was only calm as he said, _"Du bist unsterblich. Wie wirst du das deinen Eltern erklären? Wie werden sie verstehen, dass ihr Junge jetzt Köpfe nehmen muss, um zu überleben? Werden sie dich überhaupt so akzeptieren, wie du jetzt bist? Oder werden sie dich selbst im Stich lassen?"_ (You're immortal. How will you explain this to your parents? How will they understand that their boy must now take heads in order to survive? Will they even accept you as you are now? Or will they abandon you themselves?)

Bianchi waited while Jonatan tried to formulate a response. Jonatan could not. His experience with Feke, the beheading, the horrible experience afterward - which Bianchi had called a Quickening, had taught him that there definitely were things which could not be explained to a good Christian family. They would not understand. In fact, he knew exactly what would happen if his parents, or anyone in the city, had witnessed the aftermath of killing Feke.

_"Sie würden mich Dämon nennen und mich entweder austreiben oder versuchen, mich zu töten."_ (They'd call me a demon and either cast me out or try to kill me.)

Bianchi nodded. He explained further that similar events had occurred when he had first become immortal thirty-four centuries earlier.

_"Sie zu verlassen und sie weiterleben zu lassen, ist das Beste, was Sie für sie tun können, Jonatan. Das Beste, was dich für sich tun können, ist, dir neues Leben zu beginnen. Ich kann dir damit helfen."_ (Leaving them and letting them move on with their lives is the best you can do for them, Jonatan. The best you can do for yourself is to begin your new life. I can help you with that.)

_"Indem du mir beigebracht hast zu kämpfen?"_ (By teaching me to fight?)

Bianchi nodded again. When Jonatan told him that is exactly what Feke had said prior to trying to kill him, Bianchi frowned. He suggested, as a momentary compromise, that they at least ride east to his estate in Hessia and they could then work out whether or not Jonatan would accept his training. Again, Jonatan agreed. He would still sleep with the seax in his hand and hold onto Bianchi's weapons, though, he said. Bianchi laughed.

_"Natürlich kannst du das tun."_ (Of course, you can do that.)

They reached Bianchi's estate five days later. Bianchi had described it as small, a gift from a Hessian duke, but it did not appear anything of the sort to Jonatan. It was enormous. He said he could get lost for days just in the forests around the sizable house. Again, Bianchi chuckled. He then mentioned to the boy that the place also had a complete staff of functionaries to take care of their needs. Jonatan was stunned.

After a night in a private room, during most of which Jonatan spent awake and in deep thought, he informed the older Immortal that, apologetically, he must refuse the offer of training, at least for now. He had been betrayed too many times over the last year. He did not want to risk it again. He asked if he could impose on Bianchi's hospitality for a while longer and stay for a few more days. Bianchi replied that he could stay or leave whenever he liked.

_"Sie sind hier kein Gefangener. Solange du bleibst, werden ich und meine Diener dich gastfreundlich behandeln. Wenn Sie gehen möchten, werde ich Ihnen alles zur Verfügung stellen, was Sie für Ihre Reise benötigen. Während Sie hier sind, biete ich Ihnen jedoch ein Zimmer an, in dem Sie nur von innen verschlossen bleiben können, da ich Ihre Bedenken über Verrat verstehe. Niemand außerhalb kann eintreten, wenn Sie es nicht wünschen. Die Tür hat auch einen Weg, durch den Essen und Trinken für Sie bereitgestellt werden können und durch den Sie sehen können, wer eintreten möchte. Das Zimmer hat sogar ein eigenes Bad."_ (You are not a prisoner here. As long as you remain, I and my servants will treat you hospitably. If you choose to leave then I will provide you with whatever you need for your journey. While you are here, though, since I understand your concerns about betrayal, I will offer you a room in which to stay that can only be locked from the inside. No one outside of it can enter if you do not wish it. The door also has a way by which food and drink can be provided to you and by which you can see who is wishing to enter. The room even has a private privy.)

Bianchi led Jonatan to the room for his inspection and approval. Expecting something along the lines of a private cell, instead Jonatan found it to be more along the lines of a suite. He gawked at the size and luxury of the three rooms. With the assistance of a servant, Bianchi then demonstrated the locking mechanism and how it prevented all access to the room with Jonatan unlocking the door himself. He then pointed out an access panel at the bottom of the door through which food, drink, and other necessities could be pushed on a regular basis. When Jonatan asked why Bianchi had a suite - and a door - such as this, the man merely laughed again and replied that Jonatan was not the first new Immortal Bianchi had met who was concerned about his safety. Jonatan said he would stay in the suite. Bianchi then added a few conditions to Jonatan's stay.

_"Ich bitte Sie, meine Bibliothek zu nutzen und so viel wie möglich zu lesen. Es gibt eine Menge, die Sie nur aus den Büchern hier lernen können, auch wenn ich Ihnen nie etwas über das Schwert beibringe. In Bezug auf Ihre Ausbildung habe ich an jemanden gedacht, der vielleicht einen besseren Job machen könnte als ich._

_"Wenn Sie möchten, schreibe ich ihm und sende den Brief von meinen besten Reitern. Ich kann nicht unbedingt sagen, wann oder ob er kommt, aber es ist eine weitere Gelegenheit für Sie."_ (I do ask that you make use of my library and read as much as possible, as well. There is a great deal you can learn just from the books here even if I never teach you a thing about the sword. Regarding your training, if you accept it, I have been thinking about someone who perhaps could do a better job than I anyway.

If you like, I will write to him and send the letter by my best riders. I can't necessarily say when, or if, he will come, but it is another opportunity for you.)

Again stunned by the level of Bianchi's patience and generosity, Jonatan nodded his head and said, _"Ich werde alles tun, was du fragst, Luca. Vielen Dank."_ (I will do everything you ask, Luca. Thank you.)

Over three months had passed since that day and while Jonatan was growing weary of being in the suite, he was still convinced he had made the right decision. He had not gone without human contact the entire time. Bianchi made regular visits and he saw the staff every day when they brought food. Jonatan also made weekly trips to the library at the other end of the house to choose books to entertain himself. Still, he was getting anxious to do something else besides simply read, drink wine, and eat Bianchi's fine food.

A knock came at the door. Jonatan looked up from his book, his eyes going to the candle clock on the wall. It was nearly nine in the evening. Why would someone be knocking now? He stood and approached the door. The knock was repeated. Standing at the door, Jonatan did not pull aside the bar to view through it into the hallway. The change in routine was just too odd.

_"Ja?"_ (Yes?) he inquired.

If the knock at the door at this time of night had surprised him, what came next bowled him over completely. The response to his question came in English.

_"Halsen, Jonatan Fayrebancs. Min Nome ist David Asher."_ (Hello, Jonatan Fayrebance. My name is David Asher.)

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Asher never asked to enter the room. He only wanted to talk. He set up a chair by Jonatan's door and told the boy stories for as long as Jonatan wanted to listen, sometimes for several hours at a time. Midway through the second day, he and Jonatan were having spirited conversations through the thick wooden door. By the third, they were singing songs.

On the morning of the fourth day, a wary Jonatan emerged from his room. Asher took the still fearful boy with him to a cabin in the woods away from Bianchi's estate. They took no weapons. The cabin was located on holy ground - which Bianchi had explained was a safe place for all Immortals. Asher told him to not worry about training while there were there. While they were at this cabin, they would do only "kid stuff." Six weeks of hiking, swimming, and climbing had the desired effect for both of them; Jonatan learned to trust and develop an attachment to an adult again and, unbeknownst to him, Asher had already laid the foundations of the boy's physical and mental conditioning. The stage was now set for Jonatan's real training to begin.

After three years, Bianchi announced he would be moving to Spain and requested that Asher complete Jonatan's training. Asher faithfully agreed. As he said goodbye to his friends, Bianchi insisted that Jonatan take a gift from him as a memento, the short hunting sword that was made to accompany the longsword specially made for Bianchi a century before.

Seven years after the departure of Bianchi, the time finally came for Jonatan and Asher to reluctantly part ways, at least for a while. As a sign of their friendship, Asher gave Jonatan a signet ring worn thirty-two hundred years ago by Asher's younger brother. Asher had crafted the ring and its duplicate himself. It had been made, he said, so his brother, Thekris, and he could wear it for the rest of their lives. Thekris had worn it on a slender silver link necklace around his neck, waiting until he was grown before putting it on his finger. That day of adulthood had never come. Accepting the gift and the necklace, Jonatan swore he would never remove it.


	7. Lost in a Crowd

Chapter 06  
Lost in a Crowd

"Running through memories like thieves in the night.  
Clutching emotions, holding too tight.  
Hold turns to dust, shattered by light."

"Passing Strangers" - Ultravox

23 August 1999  
Grodno, Belarus

The man on the bench press was enormous. He was not fat, not in the slightest. He was just immensely tall and just as muscular. Standing at two hundred ten centimeters (6'10"), Omeir Faaris was a giant among most men. He also tipped the scales at one hundred thirty-five kilograms (297 pounds). He was currently known as Liavon Kazan and was a common sight in the gymnasium, practically living there some said. Faaris was a professional bodybuilder so such an environment made sense for him. What amazed the other visitors to the gym was the man's flexibility and speed, as well. That, certainly, was not typical for someone like him.

Paviel Maystrenko stood at the head of the bench, looking with concern at the bar on its braces. The bar currently held four hundred fifty-five kilograms (1,001 pounds) of weight. He was not concerned about the bar breaking. Even the cheap bars could support far more weight than this. He was worried about whether he could lift the bar off of Faaris if the man needed assistance. Admittedly, all he had to do was keep the thing off the man's neck and help him put it back on the braces or, in the worst case, help him push it aside.

"Are you sure about this, Liavon?" he asked as the massive man beneath the bar placed his hands on it. Kazan nodded, taking a deep breath. Powerlifting such as this was quite different from his normal routine and was, in fact, a completely different type of workout regimen than his. He had just decided that today he wanted to try something different. Like a supremely heavy bench press. Still, Maystrenko was worried. Even the American, Tim Isaac, who currently held the world record for the bench press, had only pushed up three hundred sixty-three kilos (eight hundred two pounds). And that was only a few months ago.

"Just one rep, right, Liavon? One up and done."

"Right," agreed Faaris. _Maybe two,_ he thought, _if I can, sense there is an audience gathering for this._

"Are you sure you don't want a belt or a bench shirt for this? Even some wrist or elbow braces?"

Faaris rolled his eyes. "No, Paviel. I always do these things in my t-shirt and that is all. The same goes for this."

"Alright, just don't blame me when you blow out a shoulder."

"Hey, are you going to mother hen me further or am I going to push this thing?"

Maystrenko took a step back, waving his hand. "Go ahead. Do it." He then took his place at the bar again, waiting.

Faaris positioned his hands carefully on the bar. He took two deep breaths and closed his eyes for a third breath. When they opened, his face was blank. He was ready. Breathing deeply through his nose, Faaris pushed up on the bar, unracking the tremendous weight. His face reddened instantly with the effort. On the other side of the bar, his feet jumped slightly off the floor. Lowering the bar down to his chest slowly, he took another breath.

A powerful grunt exploded from his lips as he pushed the huge burden upward. It climbed with infinite slowness, or it seemed to him. He could feel his lungs nearing emptiness. He preferred to finish a repetition within a single breath. His body worked best if he could maintain the exhalation along with the maximum effort. He always faltered if he had to take another breath. Willing the horrid heap of metal to rise, he kept pushing, his long grunt of exertion growing louder. After an eternity of effort, his arms locked at maximum height. He had done it. He eased the bar back and set it back on the rack. He could breathe again. He smiled. The dozen people gathered around him applauded.

Faaris sat up and waved a weary hand at the group, thanking them. He then ran the hand along his brow. He had already broken a sweat from that one rep. He wasn't surprised. Paviel Maystrenko came around in front of him and squatted. He extended a hand. Faaris took it.

"Liavon, do you realize how many records you broke today?" the man asked him.

Faaris waved a dismissive hand. "I'm not interested in any of that, Paviel. You're aware of that."

"But just think of how far you could go if you publicized this. The places you could go."

"No, Paviel," said Faaris, standing slowly to tower over the man. "That's final. There's enough publicity already in what I do. I don't want anymore. Now, I did cut my workout short for this little venture. I was originally going to continue it afterward. Now, however, I realize how much it has taken out of me. I am going home for the day. I'll see you tomorrow."

Faaris then left an astonished Maystrenko standing there as he walked away.

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Omeir Faaris had the appearance of youth. He had been a young man of only twenty-four when he had met his first death in the desert in a small battle near his home city of Uruk. That event was forty-four centuries past. Now, millennia later, he found himself among a unique group of people: the oldest of the living Immortals. For all he knew, he might be the oldest. He had heard rumors of some older than he, but nothing more than that.

He did not seek others of his kind as actively as he once did, though by his own count he did hold an impressive record for Immortal kills. One thing that came with immortality was a long memory in addition to the lifespan. He could remember every head he had taken. But age had tempered him somewhat. There were enough sword-wielding members of his fraternity that sought him out merely for the fact of his age and power that he no longer needed to hunt them himself. In modern times, though, this had dropped significantly, only a few per decade. He did not know if this was due to a decrease in the number of Immortals still living or some other cause. He did know that he despised those who broke their arrangements with him.

That very thing had happened a mere three days ago. A young Immortal, they were virtually all young in his eyes, named Andrey Pachenko wished to battle for his head and had agreed to meet Faaris a few blocks away from his apartment. The man had never appeared. There had been a news report of a murdered man found in an alley later that day, but no name had been given. Faaris simply assumed the upstart had run into another Immortal before meeting him and had lost. If that was not the case, Faaris would teach him the error of his lack of manners if they ever met again.

Faaris reached his apartment building. The elevator had been out of order that morning and he was already most of the way to the stairs before seeing it was operating again. He shrugged his massive shoulders and took that stairs to the fifth floor anyway. Let that be some small recompense for skipping out on the rest of his workout earlier. He knew the slight exertion would not be enough to keep him from the rest he so urgently desired right now.

Faaris emerged from the staircase at the end of the hall, fishing his keys out of his pocket at the same time. He could already feel the waters of the shower he intended to take before lying down for a nap. The massaging jets, assuming there was any hot water, would be just what he needed prior to going to sleep. He paused, his eyes directed down the hall. A man was standing at his apartment door.

Faaris stood still for a moment, wondering if the man was from the local police. There had been a political march in Minsk involving about five thousand people the month before. The people were protesting President Alexander Lukashenko's decision to extend his expired term in office until 2002. Faaris had been in Minsk that day and had witnessed the crackdown, but had not taken part in the demonstration. Perhaps this man's presence had something to do with that.

"May I help you?" Faaris called to the man down the hall, raising a hand in greeting.

The blond man, his attention clearly focused elsewhere, turned in surprise. Only then did Faaris notice that his apartment door was ajar. The man called, "_Jon tut,"_ (He's out here,) before reaching into his jacket. He did not withdraw police credentials as Faaris was expecting. Instead, an MP-443 Grach 9mm pistol filled his hand.

Faaris did not wait for further words or deeds from the man. He turned immediately and crashed through the still open doorway back into the stairwell. The man behind him fired from a distance of about thirty meters. The bullet smacked into the door near Faaris' head. The giant Immortal kept moving, his huge feet already taking the steps downward two at a time. Above him, he could hear the shouts of multiple men.

Faaris reached the fourth floor landing and took the emergency door out to the fire escape. He slowed his exit only slightly to close the door with care despite his instinct to slam it and run. Once it clicked in his hand, he took to the metal stairs hugging the side of the building. In the back of his mind, he hoped his pursuers would believe he was going for the front lobby and head for the elevator instead. If they did, he might escape. If not, surely he would find them waiting below and run into a hail of gunfire. Despite all the American movies may portray, muscle did nothing to deflect bullets.

His hopes were answered moments later when he was halfway down the last flight of stairs. There were no men waiting to shoot him down, at least not yet. He vaulted over the safety rail of the last flight, dropping down to the ground. He was running as soon as his feet touched pavement. Flight was against his better nature, it was true, but he knew nothing of his enemies. Worse, he was unarmed, still clad only in his gym clothing. While he could easily take down one or two men with his bare hands, he was of a notion there were more than that inside his apartment when he fled. Right now, it was better to keep moving and deal with the consequences of their visit at a later time.

Faaris ran for three blocks before slowing to a walk. Running would only draw attention to himself. He would have enough of a problem with that already simply due to his stature. There was no point in adding to the problem. He realized his keys were still in his hand and put them back in his pocket. Looking about as he walked, he searched for a convenient place to hide. That cafe there would do just fine. There were plenty of people there and probably a phone he could use. He had to contact some of his Immortal brethren, the few he called friends, and ask them what was happening.

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23 August 1999  
Kalispell, Montana  
Blue Bird Motel

Vincent Locke dropped his screwdriver back into his toolbox and tested the doorknob. It turned just fine and was no longer "as loose as a Phi Mu sorority girl" as one of the room's previous tenants, a nineteen-year old college student along with the two giggling girls of similar age who had accompanied him, had reported it.

Locke glanced into the room. The three students were sprawled, nude and unconscious, across the queen-sized bed. The bedclothes were scattered across the floor. Judging from the number of empty beer cans and open liquor bottles, Locke could easily ascertain why none of the three had answered when he had knocked a few minutes earlier. Shaking his head, he picked up his toolbox and shut the door, letting the three continue to slumber. He walked back to the main office.

He waved at a red-haired woman in her early forties as he entered. It was Jocelyn Myers. She and her husband, Dwight, owned the Blue Bird Motel and two others in the city. She was on the phone. She waved back and, with a raised finger, indicated he should wait. She listened for several seconds more.

That time allowed Locke to reflect about his current situation. Here he was, pushing four hundred seventy-two years of age, and he was working as a handyman at a motel so cheap that college students used it as a love shack. He didn't mind the work. Each task was a little puzzle for him to solve. He liked that. It was simply the fact of his age and position in life that sometimes got to him. Of all the members of his far-flung little circle of Immortal friends, he held the lowest station among them. That was the only part that bothered him. He knew he could do more with his life, sure. It was more a question of motivation and satisfaction for him. He was happy here. Why disrupt it with a high-stress - albeit higher paying - job?

"Hold on," Jocelyn said into the handset. "He just walked in." She held the phone out to Locke.

"The doorknob for number eight is fixed," Locke reported in an undertone.

"Thank you," she replied. "This guy just called for you. His English is poor, but I think he said he wants to talk to you."

Locke set down his toolbox and furrowed his brow. "Oriental guy?" he asked. Jocelyn nodded. Locke grinned. There was only one person he knew who could speak eleven languages perfectly, but still managed to foul up English. He took the phone.

"Hello, Taiki," he said, a slight grin on his face. "Why are you bothering my boss? I told you she's short-tempered." Locked smiled at Jocelyn as he spoke. Jocelyn returned it and waved a hand, walking away.

"Vincent, I need your help over here. Have you thought about job offer I make?" Taiki Tokawa spoke slower and more confidently with Vincent, knowing he would not be ridiculed for his occasional linguistic slip-up.

"What? Being your male secretary?"

"Yes. I need help. Someone smart, not dumb girl with big boobies."

"Well, hire one that is smaller," Locke replied in gest.

"Vincent, I mean it. You can do good job and you know I will pay well." Tokawa, currently known as the Chinese immigrant Lao Wei, was the CEO of Wei, Incorporated, a computer technology company in New York.

"Yeah, Taiki, I know you'll pay well, but I don't know the first damn thing about computers. I can barely switch one on."

"You learn. You get better. You learn fast, I know. If you speak Welsh, you can learn computer."

Locke laughed into the handset. "Taiki, being able to speak a language has nothing to do with being able to learn how to use computers."

"What I mean is Welsh hard, computers not. You learn."

Locke leaned on the office's intake counter and tapped his fingers. "I don't know, Taiki. You're asking a lot. For starters, I'd have to move to New York. I've never liked it there."

"New York is good place," countered Tokawa. "Taxes too high, but is good place. We have fun together. Always do."

Locke chuckled again. "That's true, at least."

"Come visit. See company. Have fun for three, four week. Tell boss. I pay for it. I even pay for handy-type man to cover you."

Locke perked up at that suggestion. He had not seen his friend in several years. An all-expense paid trip to visit, even if it meant Tokawa would be pumping him to take a new job, didn't sound bad at all.

"Alright, Taiki, I'll do that. Let me tell Jocelyn. I'll put in some vacation time and come out there next week. Wire some travel money to me, would you?"

"Sure thing. Send me information. Call back with it."

"Let me get your number." Locke reached over the counter for a notepad and pen. "Go ahead." When he was finished copying it down, he said, "Okay, Taiki, I'll call you back later today - collect - and give you the information."

"Good. Be nice to see you again. Bye, Vincent." Tokawa hung up.

Placing the handset back down, Locke set off in search of Jocelyn. He had a lot of planning to do once he told her about this phone call. He wondered how she would react when he told her that the Oriental man in New York was going to pay for a temporary handyman to take his place while he was gone.

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23 August 1999  
Baltimore, Maryland  
Goh's Kung Fu Martial Arts School

Lawson Kaw leaned out of the little office and called out to the sweat-drenched practitioner in the corner. He didn't like to interrupt the man. He - and his numerous high placings in professional martial artist tournaments - was one of the reasons the school was so successful in the area.

"Hey, MacBane, you have a phone call in here."

David MacBane had been going through his exercises for the past hour. Despite the look of mild annoyance on the man's face, Kaw was positive the man actually welcomed this chance at a short break.

_Who wouldn't after such a workout?_ he thought to himself as he handed the phone to the tall man. As a courtesy, he left the office while MacBane spoke.

"This is Macbane," said the man, wiping sweat from his brow and onto his pant leg.

"David, this is Omeir." The voice was either on a bad line or there was a lot of background noise.

"Where are you?" MacBane asked.

"I'm in a little cafe in Grodno," Faaris replied. "I've been waiting for several hours and practically eating all of their stores of food while waiting for a decent time to call. This is the only number I have for you, by the way. You really should provide me with a better one."

"Well, Omeir, I spend most of my time here so this is the best place to call. Anyway, what's up? What's the reason for calling? And from a cafe, for God's sake?"

"I was attacked at my apartment this morning."

"Well, I'm sure you dispatched the guy quite quickly since we're still talking."

"It was by mortals, David, not another Immortal. And I suspect, somehow, they knew about my immortality." Faaris' voice was low despite the noise from the chatter of the cafe's clientele around him. "They opened fire on me with guns rather than even try to talk to me. They took no chances. I barely got away."

"Mortals? How the hell would they even know that fact about you?"

"I don't know, but some events around here recently make me think that mortals are killing Immortals. That's purely conjecture on my part. I don't fully understand it myself, but that's my theory. From one ancient to another, I need some help here, David."

MacBane smirked at that comment. Faaris was seventeen hundred years his senior but, as was his habit, he referred to any Immortal over two thousand years of age as an ancient.

"What can I do for you, Omeir?"

"I'd like information on who attacked me, but I think it's too early right now to worry about that. I believe I can get back to my apartment and get a few things, but I'll need a place to go after that. I have the money, so that's not a concern, assuming my credit cards are still good. I simply think it's best to be around other Immortals right now. Do you have any suggestions?"

MacBane sat behind the office's desk and ran a hand through his sweaty, black hair. "I have a place in the Paris area you can use. I was thinking about going there for a few weeks anyway to check out a tournament in that area anyway. I can meet you there in a few days and we can discuss this."

"That would be a good start, David. Thank you."

"I'll wire you some money just in case, okay? If you don't need it then just give it back to me when we meet up in Paris."

"That's fine." Faaris gave him an address where he could send the money.

"Alright, I'll have the funds to you in an hour, okay? After that, get your stuff and then your ass out of there and get to Paris as fast as you can." MacBane rattled off an address for him and told him where to find a spare key. Faaris repeated the address to be sure he had copied it correctly.

"That's right," said MacBane. "I'll cancel my engagements here and meet you there in a few days. Just hold tight."

"Thank you, David. I'll see you soon."

"Goodbye, Omeir." MacBane hung up and slowly stood. His mind was reeling with all the things he had to do prior to his departure. "Well, sweet Paris," he whispered to himself. "It looks like you and I will be seeing each other sooner than I originally planned."

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23 August 1999  
Stotternheim, Germany

"_Ich bin zu Hause, Mama,"_ (I'm home, Mama,) announced little Anton Lebrecht as he ran through the door, almost forgetting to shut it behind him. The nine-year old dropped his backpack and made his way straight to the kitchen for his afternoon snack. The lack of response from his mother did not concern him. Sometimes she was in the back of the house and did not hear him. At the moment, all that was on his mind was a thick pretzel, some juice, maybe changing clothes afterward, if he thought about it, and bounding right back outside to play with his friends.

The pretzel resting on a napkin, the boy poured a glass of apple juice and sat at the small kitchen table. He pulled a bottle of brown mustard toward him and dispensed a healthy portion onto the napkin. Dipping the pretzel into the mushy mixture, he munched happily, humming a little tune to himself. A dollop of mustard fell onto his shorts, interrupting his song.

"_Zum Teufel!" _(Dammit!), the child whispered, repeating a term he heard his father often use. He took another napkin and wiped the goop from his clothing. It left a smear that would not rub out. So much for playing in his school clothes. He would have to change now. He dropped the used napkin on the table and took a sip of juice. A second later, he was humming again.

It took the boy a moment to notice the man standing in the doorway between the sitting room and the kitchen, so engrossed was he in his personal music. His green eyes swept over to focus on the man while he was enjoying a second mouthful of juice. He regarded the man for a second, blinking. He set his glass on the table and stood. He had been taught it was polite to stand when new people entered the home.

"_Hallo, mein Herr," _(Hello, sir,) Anton said softly, his eyes still taking in the odd black apparel the man wore. Except for his head and face, the man was wearing all black, including gloves.

The man smiled at him. "_Hallo, Anton. Du musst mit mir kommen." _(Hello, Anton. You need to come with me.) The man's voice was not threatening. In fact, it was almost kind. Anton still regarded him quizzically.

"_Wo ist Mama? Weiß Sie, dass ich mit Sie gehe?"_ (Where is Mama? Does she know I'm going with you?)

The man's expression did not change. He replied, "_Mach dir darüber jetzt keine Sorgen. Sei einfach ein guter Junge und komm leise mit mir."_ (Don't worry about that right now. Just be a good boy and come with me quietly.)

Anton frowned. This was not like his parents had told him. He was not supposed to go with strangers unless they knew about it and told him it was okay. He stamped his little foot in disagreement.

"_Nein, ich muss zuerst mit Mama reden. Wenn Sie sagt, ich kann, dann werde ich mit Sie gehen."_ (No, I need to talk to Mama first. If she says I can then I will go with you.) He took a step toward the man to exit the kitchen and make his way upstairs.

The man moved to the side to block him. "_Alles ist gut, Anton,"_ (Everything is fine, Anton,) he said. "_Du bist Mutter, wirst nicht widersprechen, wenn du mit mir kommst."_ (You're mother will not disagree with you coming with me.)

Anton stopped in mid-step, his eyes locked on the man's face. He put his foot down again, shaking his head. "_Nein, wo ist Mama?"_ (No, where is Mama?)

The man clearly did not want to talk anymore. Before Anton could react to the move, the black-garbed man had moved forward and wrapped an arm around the child's slender waist. Rising in the air, Anton kicked feverishly.

"_Halt! Lass mich runter und bring mich zu meiner Mama,"_ (Stop! Put me down and take me to my mama,) he demanded.

Taking a damp handkerchief from his pocket, the man slapped it over the struggling boy's mouth and nose. Anton began to get lightheaded. Before the chloroform could knock him out completely, the man whispered in his ear, "_Deine Mama ist tot. Jetzt kommst du mit mir. Geh jetzt schlafen."_ (Your mama is dead. Now you are coming with me. Go to sleep now.)

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23 August 1999  
Toronto, Canada  
Holy Trinity Russian Orthodox Church

As was his habit each day, Marton Razumov ended his shift at whichever construction site he happened to be working that week with a stop at the Holy Trinity Church to pray. The one hundred fifty years of his immortal life had been hard and he needed God's guidance to find the right path. He hoped the path that had been shown to him earlier was the correct one.

This would be Razumov's last day in Canada. He would be flying out tomorrow morning. A week before, he had received the idea of moving back to Europe and continuing his life there. He did not mind this thought. Construction laborers were needed everywhere and he could certainly find work quickly. It was the notion of going to Holland that concerned him. He did not speak Dutch and that was unnerving for him. He spoke German and that was similar in many ways, but it was not an exact match. He prayed that he would be able to overcome this limitation quickly.

During his prayers, Razumov remembered an Irish friend he had. She currently lived somewhere in Scotland. Was it the Isle of Skye? Perhaps he could contact her and she would know of some place in Utrecht, his destination, where he could stay while he made further progress on his Dutch lessons. He had already begun, of course, with some resources he had purchased at a local bookstore, but he needed time to absorb it all.

Ending his prayer, Razumov decided he would call her tomorrow before his flight. Worst case, perhaps she would allow him to stay with her for a few days. He could learn quickly and he was sure he only needed a week or two to at least have a rudimentary proficiency in the language. He would have stayed in Canada while he did this, but the revelations he had received spoke otherwise. He was not even going home tonight. He had already packed his meager belongings and would be staying in a hotel this evening.

Razumov opened his eyes when he heard muffled talking behind him. He turned his head. One of the priests, Father Florenti Akulov, was talking softly to two men back in the narthex, just barely visible from where Razumov knelt. The Immortal frowned slightly. He did not recognize the men and did not care for the expression of concern on the face of Father Akulov. From his position in the nave, he could hear snatches of their conversation.

"... us where he is," demanded one of the strangers to the priest.

"He … the nave praying. He … not be bothered… this personal time with God."

A ringing in Razumov's mind told him to move to the side of the nave, further out of sight. He was the only worshipper in the church. It seemed those men were after him. Just as he stood to move, the stranger who had spoken reached into his suit jacket. Razumov did not see what happened next. He was already stepping to his left. He did hear a metallic sliding sound and a gasp from the priest. That was enough for alarm bells to signal in Razumov's brain.

He did not run. He remained calm as he formulated his retreat. He was near the front of the nave and a few steps would bring him to it. Being designed like a cross, the front of the nave expanded significantly and was filled with additional pews for worshippers. Razumov moved his feet quietly and slipped to the left, concealing himself with the wall of the nave.

He walked to the front of the worship chamber, standing in the far left corner. Up and to the left was the sacristy. Behind that was the door the priest used to enter the room during the service. He would have to expose himself again when he stepped out to approach the sacristy. The two strangers would have had time by now to enter the nave and would surely see him.

Taking a breath, Razumov stepped out of his concealed position and ran toward the front of the room. A glance to the right told him what he suspected. The two men were there, a third of the way up the nave. The farthest of them was looking down a row of pews, probably thinking he had ducked down between them. Both of the men held pistols in their hands with silencers attached. One of them carried a machete, as well. Razumov turned his gaze back to his target, the sacristy.

The shout behind him was expected, as was the gunfire that followed it. Considering the distance from which they were firing, the men had no real hope of hitting Razumov unless they were skilled marksmen. One round punched into one of the stairs by Razumov's foot as he leapt to the platform on which the altar sat. Another tugged at his shirt sleeve. Turning left, Razumov slammed into the priests' entry door and was gone. He could hear the men's footsteps behind him as they pursued.

Razumov spent several minutes running through the church looking for an exit. When he finally came barrelling through a door into the street, he looked about to orient himself. He was on the east side of the church. Diagonally to his right was the Toronto Holy Word Church. On the other side of it, he knew, was McCaul Street. There would be plenty of places to hide in either of those places. He ran to the right.

Razumov had just ducked behind a car near the church and looked back through its windows when he saw the two men exit the door he had just used. Razumov ducked down again. He could see the men, barely, underneath the car and observed them from the ground. The car was next to some trees and obscured by evening shadow. The men, believing Razumov must have continued running when he exited the door, ran due east toward an alley which accessed McCaul Street.

When the men were out of sight, Razumov rose and sprinted west. He was going back to Henry Street and his parked car. He would be staying at a different hotel than he had planned tonight. That would be one bit of additional safety measure he could take. As he ran, he thanked God above for telling him to pack his bags and leave Canada. The time for it certainly seemed to have come.

Now, if he just knew who those men were and why they were after him.


	8. A Cruel, Cruel Summer

Chapter 07  
A Cruel, Cruel Summer

"Strange voices are saying  
(What did they say?)  
Things I can't understand  
It's too close for comfort  
This heat has got  
Right out of hand"

"Cruel Summer" - Bananarama

24 August 1999  
London, England  
The Galleria

Angela Carson was bored stiff. Here she was, a teenage girl - well, physically she was nineteen, but she had lived a year as an Immortal - in the middle of a great shopping district and she was bored. Born in the United States, her family had moved to England three years ago when her father's job transferred him. At first, it seemed like the move would be the coolest thing in the world. Now, with Angela's parents lost in a home fire - and, technically, herself, too - she was alone and had no way to truly entertain herself.

Sure, she could ask for more time at her meager job at the coffee shop, but that was only so-so as far as a diversion. The extra money was nice, but negligible. It was expensive to live in the London area, even in the 'burb of Chigwell. She'd had to take in two roommates just to be able to cover the rent and utilities on the small apartment she had. What a bummer.

And, to top all that off, a passing Irish woman whose name Angela could barely pronounce had informed her of her immortality. And its drawbacks, like having to learn how to cut off heads. Angela didn't know the first thing about how to use a sword. Or any weapon, for that matter. The woman had said she'd train Angela in these things, but needed some time to get ready. They would meet at the woman's home in Scotland in three months.

That left Angela with a lot of time to waste and no idea how to do it. She had already given in to the advances of her male tenant. While he had turned out to be alright for a decent lay, she knew he could not keep her entertained for three months. He wasn't _that_ interesting.

Angela rolled her eyes over the shops the Galleria had to offer. She used to love shopping. Still did, actually, this was just an off day. Back in the states as a younger teenager, she and her friends had spent entire afternoons - or even a full day - at the mall.

"It's a lot different when you're spending your own money, though," she grumbled to herself. "The trips are a lot shorter when you know you're all out of cash."

Finally letting out a weary sigh, Angela reached for her backpack. She'd put on her rollerblades and skate around for a while. Maybe she could also commit some minor altercation while she did it. Just enough to annoy a nearby constable. Nothing too bad. Just make him scoff a bit…or at least admire her ass as she sped by him.

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25 August 1999  
Westminster, England

Devon Sather groaned as he leaned back in his chair. He was coming more and more to the belief that office work was simply not for him. Just now, he had finished reading through the hundreds of pages of information that Michael Walker had emailed to him a week before. Never in his life did Sather wish more for those days when he simply had to receive a mission and execute it, like during his brief stint with the SEALs or when he was with hostage rescue with the FBI. Not much paperwork there, at least not for him, that was for the senior team members and the officers. He just had to do what he was told.

Now, with weary eyes, the young Watcher pondered whether the others in the organization were right. Maybe he had been promoted too quickly. He just didn't have the patience for this sort of thing. Simply glancing over Walker's material made him want to go out, kick open a door, and start shooting bad guys. But, no. That was not his job. His job was to command others who did that sort of thing. Well, not really. His job was to command others who wrote reports for him to read. Just bloody fantastic.

Sather smiled grimly. The Watchers didn't even have an armed branch of their organization, not even for security purposes. Sather couldn't command a group of heavy-hitters to take down a group of the opposition even if he knew where that opposition was. Those hitters didn't exist. There had not been a need, it was thought, throughout the history of the Watcher Organization, for such a group. Even the previous flare-ups of Hunter activity on record - and, God knew, Sather had read them all now - had been brought down simply by vigilant Watchers who apprehended the rogues and brought them before the Watcher Tribunal.

The Tribunal was the only real sort of avenue for justice the organization had. Composed of three senior Watchers, usually three Regional Directors but sometimes including the EDOW himself, depending on the accused, the Tribunal worked like a panel of judges. They even had a jury, of sorts, made up of various Area and District Directors chosen at random. Once judgement was passed, it was considered final. In the case of the last group of Hunters, it had been a death sentence for them all. Sather had even watched a recording of the sentencing and execution for the leaders of the uprising. It had all been very clinical, a pistol shot to the back of the head, probably with the personal firearm of whomever carried out the sentence.

Putting his fingers to his keyboard, Sather began to type. An idea had formed while he was reading Walker's reports. He just needed to get all the thoughts written down before they ran off into the void of forgetfulness. He even opened up his previously unused PowerPoint application and put together a five-slide presentation to aid in describing his plan.

_Shit, I'm becoming more like an officer, after all,_ he thought.

Sather picked up his phone and dialled Walker. After speaking to the secretary, he put it on speaker and laid the handset back in its cradle. He'd be waiting a while. But he didn't. Walker came on the line less than a minute later.

"What have you got, Dev?"

"A shitload of dead Immortals across Europe, forty-six by this morning's count, and a headache from reading all the documents you sent me. I'm even getting news of there being Hunter attacks in North America. What the fuck kind of investigation was this, Mike, and why didn't you make Max Correll's information known sooner? This is now an intercontinental problem and all we're doing is sitting here with our thumbs up our asses reading emails and talking on the phone."

"What can we do, Dev?"

"Get out there and stop these bastards. That's what we can do. Hell, I learned that Helena Kraus was killed two days ago. She was the first Immortal assigned to me when I was a Field Watcher, Mike. She was a good lady. If she was going to die, it should have been another Immortal who killed her, not some prick with a hardon against people like her."

"Alright, Devon, calm down." Walker sighed. "You do realize you are the only Regional Director I would allow - briefly - to talk to me like this, right?" Walker could not hide his exasperation. "I'm just as fed up with this little problem as you are. We just need to develop the right measures to counter it."

"Little problem? Immortals are dying every day and you're calling that a little problem?" Sather's voice was rising. "And don't forget that we're losing Watchers, too, Mike. Howard Shanks was killed yesterday and we lost Erin Deveraux last week. Erin was only twenty-three, Mike. Younger than me, even. She shouldn't be dying because of this. It's no little problem. This is a fucking crisis."

Walker sighed again. "You're right, Dev. I used the wrong word. Forgive me. Okay, so we need to do something about this. More than we already are. What do you suggest?"

"Not on the phone," said Sather brusquely. "First of all, it's not as secure as I like. Secondly, you're going to want to put this before the other Regional Directors for consultation, I'm sure. That means setting up a video conference."

"Video?" repeated Walker.

"Yes, Mike. It's almost the twenty-first century. We have the technology infrastructure already in place for video conferencing. There is no need - or time - for the expense of having the RDs fly to Europe for this. VOIP (Voice Over Internet Protocol) is much more secure. We can talk that way and quibble about the details."

"Well," replied Walker, "I guess this is as good a time as any to try out our new tech, isn't it? Do you want to switch over to video conference now and show me your plan?"

"Ready when you are, Mike."

"Okay, give me a moment and I'll see you on the monitor."

Twenty minutes later, Sather was finished with his briefing to Walker. He answered the EDOW's questions and then waited for the man's thoughts on the proposal. Walker was silent for a full minute. Sather started to get antsy.

"It's ambitious, Dev. I'll give you that. It will definitely need to be seen by the other RDs before I make a decision on this. Are you willing to brief it again for them?"

"Abso-fucking-lutely."

"Alright. I'll have Nancy set up the meeting. She'll let you know when it will be. Thanks, Dev." Walker signed out of the conference.

"And the son of a bitch never even told me what he thought of it," commented Sather.

He slumped back in his seat again, looking over his rudimentary scheme once more. It could work, he thought, if the EDOW had the balls to do it.

Sather sat up straighter. _Ambitious,_ _the man had said. Well, I just had another ambitious idea, good ol' Mister EDOW, sir, and you probably wouldn't like it very much if I told you about it._

Sather got up and left his office. His secretary, bored because he kept forgetting she was there and did everything for himself, looked up expectantly.

"I'm going to lunch, Sandy."

"At three o'clock in the afternoon?" she asked.

"I lost track of time while talking with the EDOW," he replied. Well, it was mostly true. Sandy Knoxwell nodded and went back to her game of computer solitaire.

Sather walked six blocks down the street before deciding he'd gone far enough. Fishing some coins out of his pocket, he fed them into a nearby phone booth and dialled a number. He waited for the person on the other end to answer.

_"Hallo?"_

"General Maximillian Honnecker?" Sather asked the voice. He had never heard the man speak before. He had only seen him from a distance. He had many photos and field reports on the general, but no voice recordings. Max Honnecker was the last Immortal Sather had watched prior to being promoted to Area Director.

_"Ja. Wer ist das?"_ (Yes. Who is this?) the voice queried.

_Here goes,_ thought Sather as he began to speak. _"General, Sie kennen mich nicht, aber bitte hören Sie zu, was ich zu sagen habe. Ich denke, Sie werden es ziemlich interessant finden. Ich kann Ihnen auch alles beweisen, was ich Ihnen sagen werde."_ (General, you don't know me, but please listen to what I have to say. I think you will find it quite interesting. I can provide proof of everything I am about to tell you, as well.)

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26 August 1999  
Tilburg, Netherlands

Pierre Garneau awoke from his near doze when he heard the side door of the van open. Without looking back, he could already see the serious expression on Juan Santos' face, despite the fact it was concealed behind a black balaclava. The man was all business at times like this. Garnea checked the van to make sure he had not inadvertently switched off the engine. It was running. He placed his foot on the brake pedal and released the parking brake.

At the door, two others appeared, shadows in the darkness. Brad Rushton and Marta Ljevaja stepped up to the aperture and each handed Santos a small body. Santos cradled each in his arms and laid it carefully on the floor in the back of the van. Once the second body was handed over, Ljevaja climbed inside and Rushton shut the side door. He then jumped into the passenger seat. Without a word spoken, Garneau released the brake and pressed the gas pedal. They were away.

"Any problem from the parents?" he asked Rushton, his eyes on the rearview mirror.

"Nothing a 9mm bullet each didn't solve," replied the man with a gruff voice. He cleared his throat and turned to face the back. "How is it, Juan?"

"They're secure," reported Santos, his words only slightly distorted by the balaclava. He punctuated his statement with a final piece of duct tape over the mouth of Adrianus Van Dijk. He and his twin brother, Espes, would likely not wake for several hours. When they did, the tape around their hands and over their mouths would reduce their struggles and calls for help. The fact that the two blond boys were the same age as Santos' own eleven-year old son did not seem to affect him in the slightest, at least not his voice. When Santos pulled the balaclava from his face, the dim overhead light displayed the same story. The man was ice.

Garneau drove on. They had a three hour drive to complete before their slumbering packages were delivered. He had to make good time and stay ahead of the authorities. He knew it well. They had made the trip earlier that day when they had taken Elise Mertens from her home in Antwerp, Belgium. She had been even smaller and a year younger than the Van Dijk boys. But the story was the same. Protesting parents both silenced by 9mm rounds and chloroform for the kiddos. Since chloroform only lasted a short time, an injection of a stronger sedative followed that. Garneau almost wished he could see the faces of the crime scene inspectors and read their reports when they found two bodies, bullet casings, syringes, and no children. He was sure it would be quite an entertaining read, better than an Agatha Christie novel, perhaps.

"That's the last snatch for us," said Rushton. "After tonight we go back to our real jobs."

"We should do our real jobs on these two rodents in the back," stated Ljevaja flatly.

"That's not in the plan, Marta," replied Rushton. "They stay alive until we deliver them. That's the mission."

Ljevaja did not respond. She only stared silently out the window, her face blank.

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28 August 1999  
Stuttgart, Germany

Major General Maximillian Honnecker tossed the massive printout of the anonymous Watcher's emailed documents onto the table and picked up his glass of eighteen-year old Glenfiddich Scotch. He took a large mouthful and let it sit on his tongue as he pondered the meaning of what he had read. If this were true then he and all Immortals were facing a crisis like none other in their long history. It would take an unprecedented level of cooperation between Immortals - and a leader of renown and skill to command them - to combat this kind of threat.

Honnecker swallowed the Scotch. Just pondering the logistics and intelligence requirements of such an operation was enough to make one's head swim. That was where his particular skill set resided. Commanding the Immortals in the field, in direct contact with these…Hunters…would require something else entirely. Honnecker was not lacking in the skill of leadership. He excelled at it, in fact. He simply knew his own limits to it, as well. What was it the fictional American detective, Dirty Harry Calahan, had said? Ah, yes. "A man's got to know his limitations." Honnecker knew his. Someone else, someone better suited than he, would have to take the responsibility of field leadership, perhaps even command of the group as a whole, with Honnecker acting in support.

Honnecker knew of such an Immortal with those capabilities. The name came to him readily enough. David Ashton, potentially one of the best generals in mankind's history, was just such a man. But how to contact him? Honnecker did not know where he was even living at this time, or if he still was. Ashton had his small circle of acolytes who could communicate with him easily enough. Honnecker mentally ran through a list of them. Darren Dublin, Jonathan Fairbanks, Vivia Wales, Eric Doyle, Jennifer Ellis, and Alyssa Cordeiro, to name a few. There were others, he knew, even a few mortals who could do it, but he would have to check his records to verify the identities of any of those people

With a mental shrug, Honnecker picked up his wireless phone. While he searched for the answer to contacting Ashton, he could at least start the necessary actions on his side. He dialled a number and waited for it to pick up. The voice on the other line answered in English. Honnecker replied in the same language. He did not identify himself. The man at the other end already knew who he was.

"Lawrence, I am going to need some assistance from you. I can't say for how long. It could be quite a while. With some risk, obviously, or I wouldn't be calling you. Please contact the others and have them meet me at my home in Stuttgart tomorrow."

"Roger that, General." The man hung up without asking questions. It was done.

Honnecker set the phone down and took another sip of Scotch. With that one call, four Immortals of impeccable skill and trustworthiness had been set in motion. Lawrence Channing, Viktor Petrov, Jasper Marion, and Charles Ulrich would meet with him the next day and he would brief them on their missions. It would be a busy time for them all. Perhaps one of them would even know how to contact Ashton, as well.

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30 August 1999  
Edinburgh, Scotland

Ottenbreit smiled as the figures on the monitor scrolled before him. The first two weeks of the operation had progressed stupendously. To date, sixty-two Immortals had been killed. It was a good start. His Hunters had seen it necessary to take out five Watchers and eighteen other mortals, as well, but that was not a concern. Such collateral damage was to be expected. When the history books were written of this event, he and his two hundred thirty-seven subordinates would be hailed as heroes of the human race. The dead would soon be forgotten.

Lighting a cigar, the Hunter examined the numbers and reports further. He was looking for a pattern of disruption, if any existed. Adam Matzel's advice from a month before came back to him. They had to be prepared for hiccups, for retaliation from the other side. Such things always occurred. He just had to identify what form it would take and be sure his people were properly equipped to deal with it when it came.

Thus far, there was nothing. That did not mean it would not come in the future, only that it had not come yet. Ottenbreit continued to grin. With the speed at which the op was going, by the time the Immortals, or even the Watchers, were able to mount any sort of action against him, there would be too few of them left to make any difference at all. The German chuckled to himself, smoke from his cigar twirling upward into the air.

_Excellent work, people. Keep to the plan. Grind the Immortals - and any Watchers who stand in your path - into the dust. This will all be over by the end of December at this rate._


	9. Run Away

Chapter 08  
Run Away

"Woke up to reality  
And found the future not so bright  
I dreamt the impossible|  
That maybe things could work out right"

"Shattered Dreams" - Johnny Hates Jazz

02 September 1999  
Atlanta, Georgia  
Ashton Residence

Fairbanks closed his book, _Anam Cara: A Book of Celtic Wisdom, _and set it aside. The book had been recommended to him a few years ago by a friend and he was finding it incredibly refreshing but he couldn't concentrate on it right now. A giddy feeling from a few days past had struck him and would not abate. He had managed to convince Tanner's parents to bring the boy to Ashton's house last weekend and the visit had gone better than he had hoped. Not only had his new friend been blown away by the luxury of the house, but the two of them had been able to coax Ashton out of his typical weekend relaxation and participate in some of their activities.

That was really where things started to go right. Tanner had been instantly stricken by the older man's openness to the two boys and the easy manner by which he made even the most humdrum of activities fresh and new. Fairbanks had watched Tanner soak up tidbits of information - and even new skills - just through the games they played with Ashton.

When Tanner had mentioned having to climb a rope in his physical education class, for example, and having difficulty with it, Ashton had insisted on being shown how he made his way up the rope. He not only walked outside with the boys, he climbed a tree with them and then showed Tanner how to tie the right knot around a branch to secure the heavy rope for the upcoming demonstration. Tanner got it right on the second try. He then had to repeat it with a second rope. Now he and Fairbanks could race…once Tanner knew the right technique for the climb. Fairbanks could see the excitement growing in the teen's eyes the whole time.

When Tanner wrapped his body around the rope and showed Ashton how he had climbed at school days before, Ashton then took his place on the neighboring rope and talked the boy through adjusting his feet and his grip in order to improve his ascent. After two more minutes, a task which Tanner admitted had worn him out completely at school - and with little progress to show for it - it had become an exercise in simplicity. He saw that he had been trying to use his arms the entire time when his feet were actually a critical part to the equation.

With the improved method, Tanner climbed all the way to the top of the rope and touched the branch with little effort. He was aglow with his new accomplishment. Fairbanks just watched and smiled, remembering when Ashton had done the same with him back in Germany all those centuries ago. After that, came the races between Tanner and Fairbanks. Before long, even with Fairbanks' superior physical conditioning and practice, he found his friend putting up some stiff competition in the race. Ashton watched the whole thing, a simple grin on his lips.

The entire weekend had been similar. Whenever Ashton became involved in the boys' play, Tanner learned something new or improved an existing skill. And he had fun doing it. That, Fairbanks knew, was the man's real strength when it came to training. He could always make something that seemed like work become play. Tanner, like countless children before him, learned without realizing he was doing it. He quickly became hungry for more. Fairbanks could already see the boy started to break free of the shell of personal ignorance his parents had inadvertently instilled.

Fairbanks wondered how much of his plan for Tanner he should tell to Ashton. Or if the man had already sensed it from him and silently agreed to participate. Either way, since Ashton was not at the house that evening, he'd have to wait until he got back. With a glance at his watch, he knew it wouldn't be too much longer. Ashton only had to go up north to Marietta for a quick meeting, probably some socializing with business associates, and then he would return. He saw headlights out the front window.

_That must be him now,_ Fairbanks thought to himself.

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Myfanwy Llewelyn drove the Explorer up the winding road, encountering no other traffic. She couldn't believe it had been so easy. Given his many years of life, she would have expected Ashton to hide himself better. Well, if he wanted to make himself an easy target, who was she to complain?

Cautiously she drove by the house, noting its elegant exterior and beautifully manicured gardens. He had exquisite taste; she'd say that much for him. Perhaps after taking his head, she'd keep the house.

She pulled onto the shoulder a few yards beyond the driveway, pausing a few moments before getting out of the vehicle, taking her saber with her.

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Fairbanks saw the vehicle stop short of the front gate, parking on the shoulder of the road. He tensed. It wasn't David, that much was sure. He wouldn't be circling around the yard to the back door. Running off to get his wakizashi, he headed for the back himself, the tingle of the Immortal's presence already traveling along his spine.

Llewelyn met him at the step, calmly surveying him before speaking. "I assume you are not David Ashton?"

"David who?" Fairbanks asked quietly. "Never heard of him." This was becoming a chore. This woman was the third Immortal in four months. Word of Ashton's whereabouts was spreading quickly and the headhunters were coming out of the woodwork.

Llewelyn smiled warily. "I'd heard he had a child Immortal with him. You must be Jonathan Fairbanks. I might have to try you one day. I've heard you're rather good."

Fairbanks shrugged noncommittally. He shut the door firmly behind him.

Llewelyn sighed and glanced around. "I was looking for Ashton. When will he be back?"

Fairbanks shed the scabbard from his wakizashi and readied himself. After all David Ashton had done for him, the least he could do was help keep the wolves from his back. "Not for a while. Why not try me now?" He didn't wait for her response, swiping his wakizashi at mid level.

He took her by surprise and she tried to evade but his sword came away bloodied on his first strike. Llewelyn grunted, but showed no other signs that the injury would slow her down. She lunged forward, her saber slashing in a blur. Fairbanks deflected it to one side, spinning with lethal grace, narrowly escaping a second deadly thrust. The woman launched another vicious attack, her strength driving the boy back against the doorframe. The steel of their blades clashed sharply again and again.

Her sword took advantage of a momentary lapse in Fairbanks' concentration as the back of his head hit the doorframe and she etched a ribbon of scarlet across his chest. Before she could delight in the strike, Llewelyn felt the sharp sting of rebuttal across her left cheek. She stepped back quickly before Fairbanks' blade could do more than break the skin. _He's doing nothing more than playing with me. He's not even trying to take me as a serious threat. _

Llewelyn screamed in outrage and arced her saber in a deceptively simple motion at Fairbanks' throat. Fairbanks saw it coming and raised his arm to block the stroke against the flat of the blade.

"I didn't come here for you," she screamed between moves. "I came here for David Ashton." She twisted suddenly, ducking low and attacking under Fairbanks' arm, the tip of her blade connecting with his body. The edge gouged a deep furrow into skin and muscle that ran from his arm to his hip.

"But you found me," Fairbanks snarled back, oblivious to the pain. He retaliated with a kick, catching Llewelyn on the side of her leg, a glancing blow that dropped her to her knees - a decidedly dangerous position for any Immortal. Fairbanks was prepared to take full advantage of Llewelyn's weakened predicament. Grabbing her by her hair, he smacked her wrist with the back of his blade. The saber fell from numb fingers. Fairbanks yanked her head back, preparing the swing that would sever it from her body.

"Jonny, _no_."

The call caught him off guard, and he paused, looking up.

The backdoor open again, David Ashton stood nearby, sword in one hand. His other clutched an assortment of envelopes from the mailbox outside. He dropped them on the kitchen table and continued to glare at the two Immortals. He had heard Myfanwy Llewelyn's intentions, her statement that she had not come looking for Fairbanks but for him. This should have been his fight, not the boy's.

"Let her go, Jonny. She did not come looking for you."

"David, she came for you. Does it matter whether it be you or I that takes her head?" Fairbanks looked in wonderment at his friend.

"Yes. Her quarrel is with me, not with you. Let her go."

Fairbanks looked down into the wide eyes of Myfanwy Llewelyn, his sword still held above his head. He took a deep breath.

"_Jonathan_."

With a disgusted snort and a sharp pull of her hair, Jonathan Fairbanks let the woman go. She fell flat on her back, gasping for breath.

Jonny Fairbanks turned and, without a word, walked off into the house.

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David Ashton stared out the window at a starless Georgia night, a wordless position he had occupied for the past several minutes. Myfanwy Llewelyn had left hours ago, happy to escape with her life.

On the couch, Fairbanks shuffled at the uncomfortable silence. Ashton's reticence gave new meaning to the phrase pregnant pause. Something was coming; Fairbanks knew it as sure as he knew that the sun would rise again tomorrow. And whatever it was, it wouldn't be good.

"I think it's time to leave," Ashton announced finally.

Fairbanks breathed a sigh of relief. Moving was something to which he had become accustomed in his eight hundred years. He had done it before; he would do it again. "Where to this time?" he asked cheerfully.

Ashton pursed his lips and continued to stare out the window. "Not just Atlanta. Each other. Just for a while."

Fairbanks stilled. The first thing that hit him was disbelief, then shock, then fear. While he could more than hold his own against the Immortals that came for his head, surviving in the mortal world was most assuredly difficult for him. No one was willing to rent a house or an apartment to a fourteen-year old, much less sell one to him. The requirements of everyday life were a challenge. He needed the pretence of a guardian so he could deal with the more mundane chores of living. Without that guardian, life was miserable. He knew. He'd lived it; no stable home; no established life; constantly running, first from Immortals, then from the authorities bent on finding out just why a fourteen-year-old appeared to be without parents. It was a nightmare.

"Why?" he asked, his voice hollow.

"Because it is unsafe for you to remain here. With me. I must leave, too." Ashton turned, blue eyes calmly regarding the boy on the couch. "Myfanwy Llewelyn was the third Immortal in as many months to come looking for me. She will not be the last. My whereabouts have been noted. I have become the hunted."

Fairbanks snorted. "David, I can more than hold my own. I…"

"No." The word was quietly said, the force implied rather than sounded. "There might come a day when you can't hold your own. I will not have your blood on my hands, Jonny." He noted the Immortal's look of concern. "I will find you a new guardian, have no fear. You can stay here for a few weeks until I do. I will not abandon you." Ashton smiled. "I never have."

"Where will you go?" Fairbanks asked sadly.

Ashton considered a moment before answering. "I believe it would be safer for you if I didn't tell you. Don't worry, Jonny. We shall see each other again soon. You are strong. You will survive; I trained you well enough over the years. And I am too old and too hard headed to die now. We will get back together, at the latest, early next year when it is time for you to start attending Eton."

Both men smiled for a moment, savoring the bittersweet knowledge that their life as uncle and nephew - though it was often more like father and son - was now over, at least for a time. Were they to meet again, it might likely be on different terms. Not adversarial ones, but not quite the same as now. Fairbanks swallowed and nodded mutely. He knew his protestations would be to no avail. Ashton's mind was decided.

They sat up late, drinking Napoleonic brandy and reminiscing, remembering their times together. Finally, Fairbanks fell asleep on the couch. As he was sure it would, the sun rose the next morning. It was that same sureness that told him, even before he opened his eyes, that David Ashton was already gone.


	10. Listen Closely

Chapter 09  
Listen Closely

"Oh, take your time, don't live too fast  
Troubles will come and they will pass"

"Simple Man" - Lynyrd Skynrd

03 September 1999  
Glasgow, Scotland

Michael De Lioncourt never failed to be amazed by the various locales his profession required him to visit. As a private investigator, he had to travel wherever the jobs took him. This time it was Glasgow. At the moment, he sat in the Ben Nevis pub, sipping on a pint of stout and keeping an eye on his current assignment.

The man was a craggy-faced Scot with red hair and green eyes. De Lioncourt mentally reviewed what he knew of the man. Steven "Sandy" Traynor was a recently discharged staff sergeant from the British Army. Traynor had served for twenty-two years in the Army but now, being thirty-eight years old, he had decided to leave the job to younger men.

Traynor did not appear happy at all as he nursed his pint. His file said he had enlisted at age sixteen, the minimum age at which he could do so, and used the military as an escape from the doldrums of life in Scotland. Calling himself a "gutter Scot," Traynor's childhood had been hard and the army, by comparison, was an easy way out of the rough life he'd had growing up.

Traynor had even volunteered for the Special Air Service, the special forces of the British Army, and had done well while there. De Lioncourt smirked. The Scot could have held a higher pay grade than that of staff sergeant when he retired, but his short temper had often landed him in hot water and, as a result, reductions in grade. Despite those speedbumps, Traynor's overall record was exemplary. He wondered offhand why his client wanted a tail on the man at all.

De Lioncourt knew the official reason, of course. Traynor had contacts with foreign nationals and these acquaintances always caused concern with some people. Thus far, though, after three weeks of trailing the man, the Immortal Frenchman had noticed nothing whatsoever about the Scot that indicated any sort of nefarious, or even remotely illegal, activity on Traynor's part. In fact, he seemed to spend most days simply sitting at this pub with a perpetual glass of dark beer in front of him. Surely a bit of alcoholism wasn't a crime, was it?

De Lioncourt checked his watch. It was nearly eight o'clock in the evening. This was Traynor's tenth drink since he had arrived at the pub at three. In the back of his mind, De Lioncourt noted that, in spite of his heavy drinking, Traynor did not appear to have gained any weight as a result. He still seemed to be in top shape, especially for a man in his late thirties.

Traynor yawned and tipped back his glass, emptying it. He signalled for another and stared glumly out the window into the twilight. De Lioncourt thought again that the man looked bored. _Missing your old life after four months of retirement, are you, Sandy?_

The eleventh pint arrived and Traynor nodded his thanks to the barman. He dropped another five-pound note on the table in front of him and took a long pull from the glass. He then returned his gaze to the window. With another yawn, he glanced down at the basket of fish and chips he had ordered an hour ago. He had barely touched it. After the slightest of shrugs, he picked up a piece of fried cod and bit into it. The expression on his face told De Lioncourt the Scot did not care for the taste of cold fish. The man chewed on regardless, following the greasy bit with another sip of Guinness. He ate half of the chunk of fish before losing interest and dropping it back into the basket.

De Lioncourt's own interest was starting to wane. He paid for his own half-drunk glass and considered leaving for the night. What was he going to learn by continuing to watch this man tonight? Certainly nothing more than he already had over the last several hours. Besides, he needed to update his observation notes and report back to his client at some point this week.

De Lioncourt let his eyes wander around the pub, not really focusing on anyone at all, until they came to the front entrance. A man was just now coming in from the street and removing his hat. With nothing better to do, De Lioncourt watched him for a while. The man walked nonchalantly through the pub as if he were long familiar with the place. He waved at the bartender, but only slightly. De Lioncourt made an effort not to be obvious with his interest now. The man was standing in front of Traynor's table.

Traynor slowly looked up at the man, an expression of total disinterest on his countenance. De Lioncourt was sure, though, that he detected a note of recognition in Traynor's eyes. The stranger bent down and took the coaster from Traynor's previous pint in his hand. Staring directly into Traynor's eyes, he placed the coaster on top of the Scot's current glass of Guinness.

"You're done," he said in a tone that De Lioncourt only barely managed to hear. "It's time to go. Follow me out the back."

Traynor just blinked up at the man. His eyes locked with the stranger's, he reached over to his glass and removed the coaster.

"I think not," he replied in a similar volume, just barely audible to De Lioncourt. "I'm not finished with my pint yet."

The stranger appeared mildly annoyed. He placed the coaster back on top of the glass. "Yes, you are," he affirmed. "Now, come with me out tha back."

De Lioncourt was definitely interested now. Glancing around, he saw numerous patrons quietly paying their tabs and slipping out via other exits. The barkeep himself appeared like he was rapidly, but quietly, going through his shutdown procedures. De Lioncourt's eyes narrowed. The pub did not close until two in the morning. Why was he wrapping up now? It was not even ten after eight.

"No, I'm not," repeated Traynor, removing the coaster again.

Scowling at the Scot, the stranger put the coaster on the glass a third time. The pub was nearly empty now. It was obvious by now that Traynor had noticed all of the clearing out, as well. "This is the last time I'm going to say this," said the stranger. "I don't really care how you leave, but you're leaving this pub. Right now."

Donning his own annoyed expression, Traynor replied, "Alright, then, but I'm going out the front door and I'm taking my pint with me."

The stranger did not argue with him. He merely stepped back and let the Scot pass. He then followed Traynor out the door. The slow walk and wistful glance around the pub made De Lioncourt think of a man walking to his own execution, taking one last look at the things he loved. Perhaps that was exactly what was happening. De Lioncourt watched it all, swivelling his head a little more than he meant to do. He wondered if the two men had noticed him observing them.

Coming back to his own reality, De Lioncourt noticed he and the bartender were the only ones left in the pub. The barman turned to say something to De Lioncourt, probably to tell him he needed to leave, as well, but never uttered a word. His eyes moving to the broad front windows, they went wide and the man dropped behind the bar.

Michael De Lioncourt's reaction time was slow. He had been paying so much attention to the activity within the pub that he did not notice what was occurring outside. He rotated his neck to look out the window himself. What happened next interrupted him.

Automatic gunfire from the panel van in front of the pub demolished the front windows and filled the air within with blazing hot hornets of lead. De Lioncourt fell from his stool as he was struck in the legs and abdomen by four rounds. He crashed to the floor, his head banging against the hardwood surface. The shock of the wounds delayed him a moment longer as he fought for breath…and consciousness.

The Frenchman crawled across the floor, not bothering to suppress the groan of agony his throat emitted. He could feel his body trying to heal itself, but knew it would take some time before he recovered fully. He left a trail of blood behind him as he slithered across the floor. Using his hands, he pulled himself into the kitchen and out of sight of the gunmen outside.

Cursing, De Lioncourt continued to high crawl across the floor. He did not think he could stand yet, but he could keep moving, damn it. He heard Gaelic cursing, more gunfire, and the sound of running feet in the pub behind him. He had to stand…now. He used the stainless steel sink in the back of the kitchen for support and pulled himself to his feet with his arms. He let out another cry of pain as his legs - and their shredded muscles - took his weight. He was healing, but he wasn't one hundred percent yet. Despite this, he staggered toward the rear exit.

The twilight was still bright enough to see. De Lioncourt did not like that fact since all he wanted to do right now was escape. He was currently unarmed, handguns being illegal for civilian ownership and a sword being too unwieldy. He sighed when he realized his only possible course of action was to hide. Grimacing, he also saw that the only place to hide was the dumpster by the door. Taking a precious moment to remove his windbreaker and put it on backwards to cover his wounds, De Lioncourt pulled himself up and over the dumpster's edge. He landed in - he didn't want to know what kind of hideous stuff it was - a layer of foul-smelling sludge. Biting his tongue to clamp off the nauseous groan threatening to slip from his lips, he pulled himself to his feet and then lowered the dumpster's lid over him.

De Lioncourt heard the gunmen emerge through the rear exit as he slowly lowered himself back into the unseen goop. Their footsteps stopped. He tensed. What if they decided to look in the dumpster. His spirits sank. They would shoot him. He was in no condition to fight back.

_"Cac. Bidh an t-slighe fala a 'stad an seo," _(Shit. The blood trail stops here,) one of his pursuers cursed. De Lioncourt's knowledge of Gaelic was pushed to the extreme by the man's accent and rapidity of speech.

_"Gu dearbh, tha thu a 'fanaid, tha e neo-bhàsmhor," _(Of course, you idiot, he is an Immortal,) replied another man.

A third voice, clearly exasperated, spat, _"Dùin agus sgoltadh suas. Tha an dithis agad a 'dol mar sin." _(Shut up and split up. You two go that way.)

De Lioncourt waited. He was far too familiar with the tactic of seeming to leave and then waiting at a particular spot for the quarry to show itself. He continued to lay in the sludge and pray the men were actually gone. After a few minutes, the necessity of his healing and the draining effect that had on any Immortal overcame him. De Lioncourt passed out.

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04 September 1999  
Armagh, Ireland

No one in the town of Armagh knew much about the inhabitant of the small village. He visited on rare occasion and, when he did, showed himself even less. He seemed to enjoy his privacy and the townsfolk let him have it. If old Mr. Mac an Ridire wanted to be a hermit, what did they care?

There were rumors, of course. He was an arms dealer or a drug baron. Why else would he be away all the time or feel the need to send such gracious gifts to the charities of the surrounding area? Alleviating a guilty conscience, the town gossips said. There was no other explanation. In today's jaded society, good people didn't exist, right? The only reason anyone would do anything remotely selfless had to be if they were trying to buy back some piece of their long lost souls. Altruism? Bah! There was no such thing.

James MacNaughton knew all of the rumors concerning him. Even the more outrageous of them. He was a cannibal. He was a vampire. He was a demon from the dark depths. He laughed at them all. Why? He knew none of them were remotely so. Besides, what would the people think if they knew the truth about him? What would they say - or do - if they found out he was an Immortal - over two thousand years old, at that - and that he currently made his living in the United States as a masked professional wrestler? They'd either not believe a word of it, choosing to go with one of their other preconceived notions, or have him thrown into a padded room, that's what.

MacNaughton gazed through the tinted window of the second story of his villa down into the town of Armagh. He smiled. He had been born here, all those twenty-two centuries ago, and he still sometimes marvelled at how the place had changed from a dirty little hovel of a village to what it now was.

_Of course, time even changes Immortals, too, _he thought. _Only on the inside._

A taxi pulled up to the villa's front gate and discharged a single passenger. MacNaughton watched the man wait for the driver to extract his bag from the boot and then pay him. The new arrival then began trudging up the path toward the front door.

The man was expected. A mutual friend of theirs had asked MacNaughton to board him for a few weeks while he studied Dutch. MacNaughton smirked. The boarder would get a little more than he had hoped. Since MacNaughton spoke the language himself, he would get some assistance with the spoken side of the tongue, as well, not just how it appeared in books.

When MacNaughton could feel the electric sizzle of the arrival's presence, he began to walk down the stairs to meet him at the door. He arrived just as Razumov knocked for the first time and swung the door open widely. He smiled at the nervous man.

"You must be Marton Razumov," MacNaughton declared. "Siobhan told me you were coming." He held out his hand.

"Yes," confirmed the other Immortal. "Thank you for agreeing to put me up on such short notice." Razumov shook his hand.

MacNaughton stepped aside to allow Razumov to enter. The man openly admired MacNaughton's home, standing in the foyer with his bag in his hand, wide-eyed.

"This is a very nice house you have, Mr. MacNaughton," he stated quietly.

MacNaughton laughed. "It took me many years of hard work to earn it. And, please, call me James."

"Please call me Marton," replied Razumov, turning to face MacNaughton. "Some of the men at the building sites sometimes call me Marty, but I never quite cared for it."

Smiling again, MacNaughton answered, "That is no problem, Marton. And while you are here, please treat this home as your own. Make yourself comfortable."

"Thank you," said Razumov, finally smiling himself. "I'm not sure how I can repay you. Especially for this kind of luxury. I've never lived like this."

MacNaughton dismissed the statement with a wave. "Don't concern yourself with that. I heard from Siobhan that you wish to study Dutch and it will be entertaining simply to converse with you in that language now and then."

Razumov's eyes widened. "You speak Dutch?"

"I do," MacNaugton replied. "And several other languages, but that is simply a result of a great deal of time and life rather than personal ability." He smiled again.

"Well," Razumov's smile grew. "It looks like I may be able to do more than simply stumble about with the language when I get to Holland, then."

"I think I can guarantee that," MacNaughton affirmed. "Now, let me show you to your room. After that, I have a light snack prepared for you. You can rest afterward, if you like, or, if the mood strikes, you can tell me about the little adventure you had at the church in Canada. From what Siobhan said, it was quite the affair."

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05 September 1999  
Vienna, Austria

"Here's your passport, Mr. Lieberman," the pretty customs agent said with a smile. "Welcome to Austria. I hope you enjoy your stay here."

Charles Ulrich smiled back as he took his passport. He was travelling under a false name, one he hadn't used since 1918. His brown hair was dyed blond, and he wore a false beard. As much as he hated going in disguise, he hated the thought of falling prey to the Hunters even more. It had only been a week since he had sent his team of private investigators to find these killers. Now, one of his agents, Dieter Corman, was reported dead shortly after having reported a possible lead here in Vienna.

_Damn it, Corman, I told you not to be a hero,_ thought Ulrich. That young man was always taking risks, despite what Ulrich himself taught him. When the one hundred fifty-seven-year old Immortal had briefed his agents, he warned them not to engage the Hunters. He didn't want to send Corman, but he needed all the agents who were available. Surely enough, Corman had not been as cautious as he thought and paid with his life. Ulrich had decided to take over the investigation himself. What had been a matter of survival was now a matter of revenge. Ulrich didn't take kindly to anyone harming his people, let alone killing them.

Outside the airport, a uniformed man standing by a black Mercedes Benz limousine was waiting for him. Ulrich nodded his head in greeting as he stepped into the car. "Welcome back, sir. Nice to see you again so soon," said the driver.

"Thank you, Ottmar," replied Ulrich. "I had planned to return to London, but something has come up. I don't know how long I'll be staying. Is my saber here?" Ottmar Schneider replied that it was in the trunk.

Ulrich smiled, reassured. He didn't like being parted from his saber, especially with the Hunters running rampant. He knew he would never be able to get it through customs, so he hid it in his private jet, where one of his employees retrieved it. At least he had a Luger hidden in the back seat. He poured himself a glass of Merlot from the limo's bar and tried to relax.

After spending a few hours getting himself settled in, Ulrich contacted his remaining agents in Vienna. He was informed that Corman's last known location was in the _Ringstrasse_. Another agent, Marc Seward, had found him dead. Ulrich decided to take a trip there.

Crossing the bridge over the Danube River, Ulrich glanced at the murky water in disgust. He remembered the time it was still blue and clean, inspiring Johann Strauss, Jr. to write that timeless waltz. _Strauss must be doing cartwheels in his grave,_ Ulrich thought sadly. When he reached his destination, he decided to stop at a cafe and observe the surrounding area. Everything seemed normal until he sensed another Immortal nearby.

"Nice to see you again, Chuck," said a familiar voice behind him. Ulrich winced; he hated being called "Chuck." He turned to face his old mentor, Maximillian Honnecker. The dark-haired, square-jawed Immortal grinned at his student. "You're getting sloppy, Ulrich. You should have seen me coming toward you before I got this close. The Hunters are after us, you know. I like what you've done with your hair, by the way."

"Point well taken, Mackie," replied Charles Ulrich. Honnecker hated the moniker "Mackie" as much as Ulrich hated being called "Chuck." He smiled when Honnecker gave him an insincere glare. "And you should see me with the beard. So what brings you here, Max? I thought you were supposed to be working with the Army Chief-of-Staff in Stuttgart."

"I've been allowed to go on sympathy leave. Those bastards got Marta Kessler. I intend to put a stop to this nonsense." Marta Kessler was another student of Honnecker. She was only fifty years old.

"That's why I sent my agents to Vienna. Now one of my boys is dead, too. I guess we're on the same mission. We ought to team up."

"I agree. We'll have better luck working together. Fill me in on the latest details."

"_Jawol, Herr General!_" Ulrich snapped to attention and saluted.

"Shut up, Ulrich," said Honnecker. They both laughed.

After spending two hours asking questions and getting information, the two Immortals ate dinner and returned to Honnecker's hotel. Honnecker asked, "So what's our next move?"

"I'm going to talk to my agents and see what they've come up with. It seems that there are less than ten of them in the city and they have at least two hideouts. One of them is probably their center of operation. I'm going to see if the descriptions of those two men described by the shopkeeper match any of my people's suspects. They may have left me a message in my hotel."

"It's a pity you can't stay in your mansion, although it's probable the Hunters are keeping an eye on it right now."

"I know. I'd rather live at home, but that may not be the safest option right now."

Ulrich returned to his hotel at nine thirty in the evening. There were two messages for him. The first came from Marc Seward. The message stated that "a new situation has developed," meaning that he had discovered a new lead. The second message came from his secretary in Dresden, Sigrid Haflinger, who claimed to have urgent news.

Ulrich returned to his room and decided to contact Sigrid first. Sigrid was quite distressed; she informed him that the security of the agents had been compromised. One of Ulrich's employees was working for the killers (as the Hunters were known to the agency). Ulrich asked, "Do you know who our spy is, Sigrid?"

"No, sir," replied Sigrid, "but we believe he is still in Vienna. We don't think he was responsible for Ms. Kessler's death, but he may be after you. Please be careful, Herr Ulrich."

"I always am, Frau Haflinger. Danke." Ulrich hung up. He hadn't considered the possibility of one of his employees betraying him. He carefully screened them before hiring them, then personally trained them. They all knew one another well. Only Ulrich's Immortal past was kept from them. That meant the Hunters planted someone in his organization at least three years ago. _God, these bastards are patient, _he thought. He tried to think who among his detectives here would do such a thing: Schroeder, Baumer, Erik, Seward...Seward! He had left a message about a new lead. Was this real, or was it an ambush? There was only one way to find out. He picked up the phone and called Seward.

"Mr. Ulrich," said Seward, "we believe the suspects may be planning to leave town tonight. Erik and Baumer are keeping an eye on their residence near the train station at Bahnhofe. Shroeder is on his way to meet you."

"Well done, Mr. Seward. I'll be waiting for him at the lobby." Ulrich decided to call Honnecker. There was no answer. A sudden chill ran through Ulrich. He thought, _If those devils got to him too, I will personally kill them all!_ He rushed to the lobby where Schroeder was waiting for him. Ulrich ordered Schroeder to drive to Honnecker's hotel, purposely turning his back to him at the empty parking lot.

Upon arriving at Honnecker's hotel, Ulrich sensed another Immortal nearby, which meant that Honnecker was still alive. Sighing in relief, he saw his mentor speaking to a constable. After the police left, Ulrich disembarked and met his friend. "I tried to call you and became concerned when you didn't answer," said Ulrich. "What just happened here?"

Honnecker replied, "I was attacked by two men armed with guns and swords. They weren't Immortal. I managed to fight them off, but they escaped. It appears that one of the other hotel guests heard the commotion and called the police."

"It's just as well they escaped," said Ulrich. "Imagine having to explain why they were carrying swords. My agents have informed me that they are staying near the train station and are preparing to leave tonight. But one of them may be working for the Hunters. It seems likely they're going to set a trap for us tonight." The two friends walked to the car, where Schroeder was talking on the car phone.

"The suspects are moving, and they've split up. Three of them are headed toward the train station, and two others are heading north by automobile. Seward is following them, and they may be headed toward the Prater Park," Schroeder reported.

"Tell Baumer and Weber to follow the suspects to the station. Get there as soon as you can and help apprehend the suspects. General Honnecker and I will take the other two. Be careful, Schroeder. There's a turncoat in our ranks."

"Yes, sir. Good luck." Schroeder drove off into the night. Ulrich and Honnecker drove to the park in the latter's Lexus.

"There's a traitor in your midst, you say?" asked Honnecker. "Why don't you think it's Schroeder?"

"When we were heading over to see you, I turned my back to him in a deserted parking lot. He had the perfect opportunity to kill me. The fact that I'm still here means that he's innocent."

"Do you have any suspects? It could be that Seward chap."

"Possibly. It seems a bit too convenient that he discovered both Corman's body and the Hunters' lair. Then again, it sounds like a set up. The clues pointing to his being the traitor are likewise too obvious."

The drive to the Prater Park was uneventful. Once they arrived, they disembarked and walked into the vast expanse, carefully scanning the area. After walking for fifteen minutes, they saw a man hiding by the trees. It was Seward, and he seemed to have been shot in the arm. Both Immortals, swords around their waists, ran to him.

"Hope, you've got lots of ammo," gasped Seward. "There are five of them out there, all armed to the teeth. They knew you were coming for them, both of you."

"Stay here, Seward," said Ulrich. "We'll take care of this." Ulrich and Honnecker moved forward, making sure they wouldn't be caught by surprise. They drew their Lugers.

Honnecker saw movement behind a bush and opened fire. A muffled thud was heard as a corpse landed on the ground. It was a woman armed with an Uzi.

More shots rang out as the firefight began. Another Hunter, a heavy-set man, fell, but not before wounding Honnecker's right leg. He fell to his knees. Ulrich was hit in the right shoulder and he dropped his gun.

Two Hunters approached the Immortals, swords drawn. The Immortals likewise drew their blades. Ulrich wielded his cavalry saber in his left hand, while Honnecker held his broadsword in a two-handed grip. They squared off against their opponents.

Ulrich's opponent, a stern-looking woman, held a Beretta in her left hand and a broad-bladed short sword in her right hand. She decided to shoot Ulrich before attempting to behead him. Ulrich anticipated that move. He rolled to the ground toward her as she fired. He rose to his feet, thrusting upwards. The woman jumped back, parrying the blow. She attempted to stab Ulrich. He deflected the attack and sliced her throat. She died before hitting the ground.

Honnecker's assailant was a tall man wielding a falchion. Deciding to attack before Honnecker's leg healed. The Hunter feinted an attack to the right then attempted a downward cut. Honnecker parried and made an unsuccessful riposte. The elder Immortal felt the wound in his leg closing, so he used the longer reach of his blade to keep his foe at bay. As soon as he regained his mobility, he quickly disarmed his opponent. Honnecker grabbed the man and threw him to the ground, pinning him down.

"Which of you fiends murdered Marta?" shouted Honnecker. "Who's responsible? Who?" Two gunshots rang out. Honnecker was knocked to the ground as a bullet hit him in the back. He heard Ulrich groan as the second bullet struck the younger Immortal. Honnecker's foe stood up and retrieved his falchion.

Ulrich doubled over in pain and fell as a bullet entered his stomach. He tried to spot his assailant. His eyes widened in surprise when he recognized the traitor. It wasn't Seward, as he half-expected. It was Ottmar Schneider.

Schneider lowered his Mauser and picked up the sword of the woman Ulrich killed. "You don't know how hard it was," he began, "playing the part of a good servant all these years, observing you and gaining your trust. But I fooled you, didn't I? Now it's time to indulge myself."

"Did you kill Marta Kessler?" asked Ulrich.

"Yes, and Corman too. A pity about Corman, but he got too close to discovering my plans. Now you'll die, too, but not before you see your mentor die. Fritz, kill that abomination. He has lived too long."

The tall man raised his sword. Then Seward appeared and shot the Hunter in the head, killing him instantly. Seward pointed his still smoking Colt .45 at Schneider. "You'll pay for Corman's death."

"Don't kill him, Marc," said Ulrich. Ignoring the still burning sensation in his abdomen, he stood up and backhanded Schneider hard. The turncoat fell to the ground.

Schneider spat out blood and looked up spitefully at Ulrich. "So you want the pleasure of killing me yourself, eh?" he mocked. "I thought you didn't harm your own people."

"I don't. Killing you is someone else's privilege." Ulrich dragged Schneider to Honnecker, who had recovered and retrieved his sword.

"This is for Marta," said Honnecker, as he thrust his blade through Schneider's heart. The Hunter gasped and died. Ulrich was sad about Schneider. He had been a good employee and Ulrich had come to trust and rely on him. But he had more urgent matters at hand.

"Thanks, Seward," said Ulrich, "We owe you one. Come on, let's get you to a doctor."

"How about you guys? I saw you getting shot. And what the hell is all that sword business about anyway?"

"The General and I are all right. As for the sword business, as you call it, you don't know anything about it, right?"

The bodies of the dead Hunters were secretly buried. Seward was taken to a hospital, treated and released. Soon afterwards, he received a call from Ilsa Baumer. She reported that her team apprehended the remaining Hunters as they attempted to flee. They also recovered some files. When Ulrich inspected the files, he noticed they included a list of Immortals living in Europe the Hunters were planning to kill. Ulrich immediately contacted his agents in Dresden and had them send word to the Immortals about the potential threat to their lives.

Two days later, Charles Ulrich was back in his mansion in Vienna. Now that the Hunters were gone, he could feel safe in his home, although not as safe as he once felt. He mentally reminded himself to find a more foolproof method of screening his employees.

Honnecker, Seward, Baumer, Weber, and Schroeder were all in the mansion. Although Honnecker mourned Marta Kessler and the detectives grieved for Corman, they had at least avenged their deaths. They were also given a week off work and a bonus in their pay. That was enough cause to celebrate the success of their mission. Erik Weber opened the champagne, while Baumer and Schroeder helped themselves to the food. Seward cracked some of his jokes that always made everyone groan. Ulrich and Honnecker enjoyed port and cigars as they played billiards.

"I'll be heading back to Stuttgart tomorrow," said Honnecker. "It wouldn't do for a general to go AWOL. Although rank has its privileges, it's bad for morale."

"Take my jet," offered Ulrich. "I'll make the necessary arrangements."

"Thanks, Charles. I appreciate it."

"What's the use of owning an airline company if you can't give your friends a free ride once in a while?" Ulrich made his shot and took a sip of his port. "It's good to be the king, eh?" he added.

"Quite so. Maybe I'll rack up my frequent flier miles. On your expense, of course," said Honnecker, taking a puff of his cigar.

"Sure," smiled Ulrich. "As long as you don't mind being booked on a cargo plane filled with farm animals."

Honnecker coughed up smoke as he laughed. "You wouldn't dare," he said.

Ulrich laughed.

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Later, after Max Honnecker had left, Ulrich sat in his library, smoking another cigar and finishing off the port.

After glancing at the clock and mentally calculating the time change, he reached for the phone. He didn't for a minute believe that the problem with the Hunters was over - they didn't give up that easily.

His staff had contacted as many Immortals as they could whose names had been found on the Hunter's hit list. But Ulrich knew that there was probably more than one list.

He dialled a number, waiting for the pips and beeps that signaled an overseas call. Finally, the phone began to ring. Ulrich hoped the man, wherever he was, had remembered to have his calls forwarded to his current location. It was answered on the third tone.

"David?" Ulrich questioned. "David, it's Charles Ulrich. I think we need to talk…"

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05 September 1999  
Glasgow, Scotland

The couch in Sandy Traynor's apartment was not the most comfortable piece of furniture he had. It was likely the worst, in fact. He would lay on it when he wanted to think because the bloody thing would not let him drift off to sleep. Right now, he needed to think. The meeting with the man at the pub two days ago had left a mark on him, to say the least, and he wanted to ponder his next move, if one was needed at all.

When Traynor had exited the pub, pint glass in hand, he had expected a bullet in the back of the head right then. He knew the man who had put the coaster on his drink. It was Seamus Braden, an IRA shooter from the 1980s. Traynor had seen his face before. What he did not expect was to see that face in Glasgow. When he had, the only thing going through Traynor's mind was his past had finally caught him. He expected to die at any moment. At least he would have a drink in his hand when it happened.

He was not at all surprised by the sound of the gunfire behind him. He did raise an eyebrow when not a single round came anywhere near him, though. Traynor had turned and watched as four armed men in balaclavas had exited a panel van and run into the Ben Nevis. He also saw that Braden was still right behind him, smiling. He had looked into Braden's face, his own surprise obvious.

"Collin Daugherty sends his belated thanks to you, Mr. Traynor, for saving his daughter, Nicollete," Braden had said. "Have a good night." Braden had then walked past Traynor, leaving him with his purloined pint and a stunned expression, and disappeared.

Collin Daugherty. That was a name Traynor had not heard for almost fourteen years. The last time, he had been a young corporal walking patrols in Belfast looking to shoot the man on sight. Now, Traynor was receiving a thank you message from him. How things change.

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17 April 1984  
Belfast, Northern Ireland

The twelve men with solemn faces walked north up Albert Street, their eyes scanning every window, doorway, and rooftop as they went. They even checked the faces of every civilian - man, woman, and child - who passed them. Everyone was a suspect in Northern Ireland. Especially for a British soldier on patrol in such a place.

The men were divided into two columns, one on either side of the street. Sergeant Tom Reynolds, the squad leader, commanded the left column. Corporal Steven "Sandy" Traynor, the assistant squad leader, controlled the other. Both were veterans of "The Troubles," as the conflict in Northern Ireland was called, having been serving there for the past eighteen months. Their men were a mixture, though. While not exactly green, the two new additions to the squad had served in other parts of the United Kingdom's troubled areas around the world; they were not familiar with the particulars of Northern Ireland, though. It was a world all its own.

Traynor was the third man in his column. Private Wilcox was the point man and Private Griggs was behind him. Traynor was in the center so he could best control the section. Wilcox passed two six-year old girls playing near a doorway and paused to observe the intersection of Albert and Divis Streets. The spot was not good so he moved up further for a better view. Traynor's section continued forward cautiously, as well.

The intersection was an excellent spot for an ambush. Corporal Traynor was not surprised by the fact it came, only that it happened while so many civilians were in the street. The IRA often warned pedestrians to stay clear when the British came by so they would not become casualties themselves. It was actually a warning sign of such an event.

The initial contact came from the roof across the street. Three gunmen on the northeast side of the intersection emerged and opened fire on Wilcox and Griggs. Both men took cover behind nearby vehicles and returned fire. Across the street, on the northwest side of the intersection, four more men, one of them with an RPG on his shoulder, materialized from a cluster of trees. Private Albert, the point man from Reynolds' section, fired at them. One fell immediately.

An explosion to Traynor's left made him turn his head. He looked up. Atop the Cullingtree Housing block of apartments, he spotted four other men. A small, dark object was rolling down the slanted roof in the direction of Reynolds' men. A grenade! The small bomb exploded in the air, raining its shrapnel across the area. Two soldiers fell screaming.

Traynor sought cover from the fire of the men on the apartment roof in the only spot he could, poor as it was, the doorway near him. Beside him was one of the girls who Wilcox had passed earlier. Traynor did not see the other girl. The child seemed frozen in place in terror. Traynor seized the back of the girl's dress with his left hand and lifted her from the pavement. The child screamed and kicked. Traynor tossed the struggling girl through the open doorway into the relative safety of the building and then pressed his body against the brick wall of the doorway's exterior. He put his rifle to his shoulder and opened fire at the rooftop.

The firefight had not lasted long. Three soldiers had been wounded and two of the gunmen killed, another four injured and captured, before it ended. The remainder of the attacking force faded away in the streets of Belfast. Sergeant Reynolds and Corporal Traynor had called for extraction and taken their battered men away for medical treatment. That had been the last time Sandy Traynor had had anything to do with Collin Daugherty, as far as he knew. His application to attend special forces training was approved two days later. His time pounding the streets of Belfast had ended.

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Traynor shook his head and rolled onto his side on the couch. He didn't think he would have the ghosts of Belfasts looming up to visit him after all these years. Why had they done so now?

_It's been a long time just to say thank you. Was it really just that? Maybe. And, curiously, what did those gunmen want with going after that man who had been following me these last few weeks? He seemed harmless enough. He was probably just a private investigator my ex-wife hired to see who I'm sleeping around with these days. Or maybe something else. Hmmm… _

Traynor sat up slowly. He did have one way of asking around for information. It was slow and quite burdensome since it involved speaking so carefully. He couldn't just come right out and say what he wanted, if he used that method. He stood and walked over to his personal computer. What the hell? He'd do it anyway. What else was he doing besides wasting away on his couch not getting drunk?

Traynor logged onto a message board designed primarily for paratroopers to shoot the shit. Sometimes, though, there were other types of communication, if one knew how to do it just right. Traynor opened a new message, typed, "The Kilted Heathen Is Sober…and Pissed Off About It," and began his missive. Most of the responses, he knew, would be the typical lot responding just for the fun of it. He was a popular figure on this board, after all. What he wanted, though, was one or two particular people to answer him. He'd just have to wait and see if they checked the board.

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06 September 1999  
El Bobar, Spain

The dropbox did contain a message from David Ashton. Dublin and Ashton had used the dropbox method of communication for centuries. Slow but dependable, it had enabled them to pass messages to each other for a long time. The only real failing was one of them had to be in the area to send or receive a message. The fact that a note was in this box now meant Ashton had passed through here recently.

The writing was in Sumerian cuneiform, a wedge-shaped style of communication Ashton had required Dublin learn hundreds of years before. It was yet another layer of security for them. Not just anyone could read it. The note was short. Dublin should meet Ashton in Paris. An address was given along with a phone number. Dublin memorized the information and burned the paper.

Now the Irishman gazed at the other item he had found in the box. It was something that shouldn't be there, a second note, from a different person. Dublin was sure the note had been left after Ashton's, else the Minoan would likely have removed it. This message was written in modern Spanish and in a hand that Dublin did not recognize.

_Señor Dublín,_

_Es demasiado peligroso para ti permanecer en España. Todos los Inmortales en Europa están en peligro. Por su propia seguridad, debe salir inmediatamente. Encuentra a tus amigos, David Ashton y Jonathan Fairbanks, y adviérteles también._

_\- Un amigo_

(Mister Dublin,

It is too dangerous for you to remain in Spain. All Immortals in Europe are in danger. For your own safety, you should leave immediately. Find your friends, David Ashton and Jonathan Fairbanks, and warn them, as well.

\- A Friend)

This note Dublin kept. He put it in his pocket and placed the dropbox back in its hiding place. Walking away, he decided he would heed the warning he had received. After what he had witnessed with Javier Lucas a few weeks ago, it seemed like sound advice.


	11. Sense of Madness

Chapter 10  
Sense of Madness

"When my sanity hangs by a thread  
I lose my way but still you seem to understand  
Now and forever"

"Now and Forever" - Richard Marx

09 September 1999  
Paris, France

The talking head on the television was feining horror over the latest murder in the Paris area. Or maybe it was real. Faaris could not really tell. The man's expression and tone would likely have been unchanged either way. The anchorman stated matter-of-factly that a headless body had been found near the Théâtre Clavel on Rue Clavel late the previous evening. He did not name the individual concerned, only mentioning that the woman had been well-dressed and had likely just attended yet another an encore showing of _Anyway._ Faaris smirked when the anchor slipped and let on his opinion of a serial killer running loose in the city. This was the fourth decapitation in the city in a month.

_So much for coming to a safer place,_ thought Faarid as he worked through a series of calisthenics in front of the television. Being without the freedom to go to a gym, he had been reduced to solely martial arts, stretches, and whatever exercises he could recall that utilized his own body as resistance. He had, if not also for the purpose of completely avoiding cabin fever, taken the risk of going for runs three times a week to keep up his cardiovascular fitness. Other than that, he stayed in the house MacBane had loaned him and, against his better preference, ordered a great deal of delivery food. The stuff was filling but not the best in terms of overall nutrition. He waited until darkness fell each evening to take out the bags of refuse that had accumulated.

There was a good supply of books in one room of the house. MacBane had converted one unused bedroom into a suitable library and entertainment center. Faaris usually had little interest in movies, but had resorted to them after he had read half of the man's impressive selection of nonfiction and history. At least, as a consolation, there were also several hundred compact discs, about half of them of the type of music Faaris enjoyed. He would play those for most of the day and only watch one of the movies each day, working out as he did so as not to be completely immobile. Faaris wondered how long he could keep doing this before he went mad.

Faaris wanted to do more than just wait. He wanted to act against those who had attacked him. Against those who were clearly killing other Immortals. But how? To do that, he needed information on their identities and their whereabouts. He would also need help. Even with his considerable martial skills, he was realistic enough in his own mind to realize he could not face these adversaries alone. Other than MacBane, though, who was there?

Faaris was not one to make friends with many Immortals. They tended to either die or to turn on him eventually. There were perhaps four he would call by the moniker friend. Of those, he knew of only two, Malik Naja and Ruth Okin, that were in Europe; three if he counted MacBane's pending arrival. The fourth, Aadam Farid, he had not seen in over two hundred years and that had been in Asia. He had no idea where the man was at the moment.

Faaris switched off the television. Wandering to the library, he chose a CD of sonatas and turned up the volume. He then went into MacBane's home office and turned on the computer. He opened up a browser and began searching for information about the four beheadings in Paris. Maybe, just maybe, he could learn something about the people who had done the killings from the articles themselves.

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10 September 1999  
London, England

"Will that be all for you, sir?" Elliott Ainsworth asked his customer as he tucked the man's items into a plastic shopping bag.

"It is unless you have a copy of _Winelight_ on vinyl," the customer offered.

Ainsworth smiled. "I'm sorry. The only Grover Washington I have is on CD right now. I'm still trying to find LPs for him, though."

"Well, please keep looking and let me know if you find anything. You have my number, if you do."

"Will do, sir. And thank you."

"My pleasure," said the man. "Cheers." He waved and left the music shop, smiling, with his bag under his arm. The bell over the door jingled as he opened it.

Ainsworth's wife, Shelly, giggled after the door had shut. Now that the shop was empty, she could speak openly. "I never thought we'd sell that Tommy Sands and The Raiders album."

Ainsworth smiled, putting an arm around the young woman. "There's always someone out there who wants what you've got. It's just a question of your paths crossing. That guy," Ainsworth gestured toward the door, "collects all manner of interesting music. His tastes seem to change by the day."

"And he's willing to pay a handsome price when he finds it. I like that about him," Shelly replied.

"Oh, yes," said Ainsworth. "That certainly helps us out, doesn't it?"

Shelly giggled again and nuzzled her face into his chest. "Yes, it does." Ainsworth smiled again and pulled her closer.

The bell above the door tingled, drawing the couple's attention to the front. Their smiles faded instantly. Two men in dark clothing were entering, balaclavas over their faces. The first pulled a silenced pistol from under his shirt. He pointed it at Shelly's face.

"One sound," he said in a strong Cockney accent, "and she gets i' in the face."

The couple froze. Ainsworth said nothing, only looking into the eye slit of the man's mask.

"Good," the gunman replied. "You can listen." He gestured with his pistol. "Now, come 'ere. Jus' you, no' the trouble and strife." He used the rhyming slang for wife, but Ainsworth understood his meaning. He walked around the counter and stood before the two men.

"Now," continued the gunman, his weapon trained on Shelly again. "We're goin' for a li'le strow, we are. She's stayin' 'ere like a good Gooseberry Puddin' (woman) and you won't be puttin' up a fight. If ya do, we shoot you and come back for 'er. Got it?"

Ainsworth nodded. The gunman turned and flicked his pistol toward the exit. "Go," he said. Ainsworth obeyed, walking out without a word and leaving a shell shocked Shelly behind him.

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10 September 1999  
Grafton, England

Staff Sergeant Alan Weatheral did not really know what to do. He had requested discharge from the British Army six months ago and that request had been approved. He was now on his last week of terminal leave. In four days, he would be a civilian for the first time in twelve years. He was taking quite a risk for a friend. He just hoped it all worked out for the best.

Weatheral had been an operator with the Special Air Service for the previous nine years. He had lived and breathed the life. Loved it, in fact. When he had received a call from David Ashton a year ago and been asked to leave the service, he had been more than a little surprised. He had been completely floored. Leave the military? How could he possibly do that?

Ashton had not pressed the point. He had merely explained his plan to Weatheral and let the idea sit. Over time, the seed had germinated and Weatheral had come to the decision himself. He would do it. But he would extract an exorbitant salary from Ashton in return once the company was established. Weatheral had called back and demanded a minimum of £100,000 to start. To his amazement, Ashton had agreed. Now Weatheral had no choice but to follow through on his end. He was pleased with himself, though; not even thirty yet and he had already secured a six-figure salary.

Ashton had wired him £50,000 to Weatheral's account "for living expenses" while he transitioned to civilian life. Weatheral had debated whether to tell the man that this amount was more than a staff sergeant made in a year, but decided to keep his mouth shut. He would be comfortable, at least, for the time being and wait for the idea to become reality. A private military corporation was an interesting concept, after all. Now he just had to keep himself occupied in the meantime.

Weatheral had no wife. He had divorced three years ago so there was no one to give him a "honey do" list of tasks around the house. He was perfectly capable of that himself, though. He had mown the lawn the day before and repainted an unused bedroom earlier that morning. Now he sat before his computer with a glass of water. He just wanted to relax for a while and read the news.

After an hour of that, he'd had his fill of current events. There was only so much of the good, bad, and complete fluff he could take before he had to move on to something else. Weatheral clicked a bookmark for a message board for current and old paratroopers. He had been introduced to it a few years before by another operator and had found it to be a nice "electronic hang out" as his friend had called it. Perhaps he could find a few interesting threads to read and drop a few pithy comments before he went back to his personal list of housework.

Weatheral grinned when the message board loaded. One of the top threads was from the Kilted Heathen, the same one who had shown him the board in the first place. He missed that saucy old bastard. The Scot had retired a few months ago and the regiment had not been the same place since his leaving. Weatheral clicked open the thread and went to the original message. He'd entertain himself with all of the replies afterward.

Weatheral's grin slowly faded as he read the post. Though well hidden in his usual blue humor and profanity-laced prose, Sandy Traynor had written an encoded message to his brothers-in-arms. Weatheral doubted anyone other than himself and maybe Ashton would see through the top layer of the thread and catch the subtext. There was something strange happening in Glasgow - and elsewhere in England, if what Weather had read in the news earlier was to be wholly believed - and Traynor was looking for more information…and maybe assistance. Biting his lower lip in contemplation, Weatheral placed his hands over his keyboard and began typing out a response.

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11 September 1999  
Westminster, England

"You can see the numbers as well I can, Mike," Sather reminded the EDOW as the young director shifted the phone to his other hand. "Ninety-one Immortals killed in the last month and twenty-one Watchers along with them. Nine Watchers in the U.K. alone. We have to do something to stop this bloodshed, Mike, and I have heard nothing so far about the meeting with the other directors. What the hell is the holdup?"

Walker sighed into his phone as he replied, "The other directors have busy schedules, Devon. They're trying to find time between themselves to talk."

"You're that goddamn EDOW, Mike. Tell them when to meet and they'll meet." Sather could not keep his voice from rising as his anger built.

Walker's exasperation was audible. "This isn't the Army, Devon. I may be the Executive Director, but I can't go around handing out orders like some sort of general."

"Then what the fuck are you doing over there in your cushy fucking chair, Mike? Either take charge of your people or get out of the way and put someone there who will."

"Like who, Dev? You?" Walker's tone demonstrated the limits to which his patience was being pushed.

"Oh, hell no," answered Sather. "Anyone but me. I don't have the patience for it." Sather took a breath to calm himself. "Look, Mike, all I'm trying to say here is it's been a month and we have a lot of people dying here. Watchers and Immortals. It's just going to get worse the longer we wait. Push the directors for a time. We have to meet soon."

"Do you really think this idea of yours will work, Dev? What about our non-interference directive? What you're proposing flies in the very face of that."

"Fuck non-interference, Mike. The Hunters violated that a month ago. All I'm trying to do is stop the bleeding. We can go back to the status quo once we've put an end to this threat."

"Alright," Walker agreed with another sigh. "I'll put out a message asking for agreement for a time in the near future. I can't guarantee anything, though."

"Anything is better than the nothing we have right now, Mike."

"Okay, Dev. We'll talk again soon."

"Out here."

Sather hung up.

"Fuck!" he cursed. "How much longer are these bureaucratic assholes going to play these bullshit games?"

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11 September 1999  
Paris, France

Saint-Vincent de Paul Catholic Church

Patrick O'Banian sat in his little office, his head in his hands. The life of a Catholic priest was not an easy one, he had learned over his sixty-eight years, but he had hoped, somehow, that starting anew in France would have reduced that strain somewhat. In truth, in some ways, it had. He no longer had the ghosts of his old life looming up to burden him. He was just an oddity here, an Irish priest in a land of Frenchmen. Now, however, those ghosts had arisen despite his wishes to haunt him again.

It had begun with a confession the morning before. A man in his mid-thirties, his soul weighed down by the knowledge of current events, needed to vent to someone, anyone, and had come to the only one he knew would not turn him away if he spoke of them. This man, Jean-Paul Paquet, had come to Father O'Banian yesterday with an incredible story, one no one could possibly believe. Paquet, he said, was a member of a shadowy organization known as the Watchers. They kept tabs on an even lesser known group of people, people who lived forever. Paquet stated he was sure the priest must think him insane for believing such people existed.

"No, my son," Father O'Banian had replied. "If our Lord Jesus could raise Lazarus from the dead and Methusalah could live for nine hundred sixty-nine years, how could people like you describe not seem immortal to us?"

"Thank you, Father," Paquet had said. "You are right. Some Immortals do live as long as Methusalah. Some of them even longer."

"Then what is the problem, my son?"

"We Watchers are only supposed to observe and record the lives of Immortals. We are not supposed to interfere with them in any way but…" Paquet faltered. Father O'Banian waited.

"But there are Watchers out there who are violating that rule. They are attacking Immortals and killing them. Even in the places where they believe they are safe, on holy ground. Immortals are forbidden to fight on holy ground so, when these Hunters come for them, they cannot resist. They're helpless.

"I came to you, Father, because I am torn. I have followed the Watcher directive of non-interference for eleven years. I have watched Immortals fight each other and take each other's heads. That is their way and I did nothing about it. I could accept that. But these Hunters. They are an abomination. I have seen what they do and I am sickened by it.

"I saw them kill my assigned Immortal, Marta Kessler, two weeks ago. I did nothing about it because I have always been told not to interfere. But what I saw that day was not honorable combat between two Immortals. It was murder. They gunned her down and took her head. I should have done something. By not doing so, I am just as guilty as they. Now those men and others like them are still out there killing Immortals and I have still done nothing. I have been assigned another Immortal to watch, but I know they will come for him soon. I don't want his blood on my hands, too. What should I do, Father?"

Father O'Banian had sat silently in his booth for several seconds, his eyes closed. Paquet did not know it, but the priest knew more about Immortals than simply what the Watcher had told him. His own sister, Siobhan, was an Immortal. That fact had been, in part, the reason he had left Ireland and come to France. Father O'Banian let out his pent up breath and answered the man.

"You must do what your conscience leads you to do. That is the voice of God talking to you, that still small voice. Do not restrain it. The rules of man and the laws of God often conflict. When they do, it causes the kinds of consternation you are experiencing now. Listen to that small voice in your heart and have no fear. It will lead you down the right path."

Paquet had not replied immediately to the priest's counsel. He remained quiet for a full minute as he absorbed it. He finally stood resolutely, his mind made up.

"Thank you, Father. You've been a great help."

With that, the man had walked out, leaving the priest with his own dilemma. Sitting in his office, he contemplated whether he himself should act upon the words of a confessionary or keep those comments within himself. He closed his eyes and prayed silently, searching for guidance of his own.

The small voice he had mentioned to Paquet came to Father O'Banian, as well. He opened his eyes and smiled. God never failed him when he needed him. The path shown to the priest may be one he did not always understand, but it was always the correct one. This was surely it now. Reaching for a pad and pen, Father O'Banian began to write the first letter to his sister in two years.

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12 September 1999  
Swansea, Wales  
Swansea Central Library

The small blonde woman seemed out of place in the library. She would look more at home at a fetish club or a punk rock concert. The metal bar through her eyebrow and the stud in her nose were in congruence with the chunks of pink and purple hair that she sported. She sat at a computer, a stack of books to one side of her, a notepad at the other. Passersby most likely thought the topics of the selected volumes would be along the lines of witchcraft or medieval torture techniques, if they went solely by the young woman's appearance or clothing. They would be surprised to learn they were all related to Middle Eastern culture and religions or that the odd-looking woman held a Ph.D in the same.

Nicola Courtorielle was used to being overlooked, underestimated, and misunderstood. She had been such all her life. Always the wild child, she had started out as the classical tomboy when she was younger. She liked the rougher games, running, wrestling, and climbing, rather than the more accepted "girl games" like playing with dolls. She had not changed much during her teenage years, except for her newfound interest in sex, and had kept to whatever school sports would allow her to be the most active, particularly running.

Academics, like athletics, had always been too easy for Courtorielle unless she actively sought out a challenge. She amazed her parents and teachers alike by posting high marks in all her classes, even the advanced placement college classes, with little effort and still finding time for participation in extracurricular activities like cross-country running and athletics (track and field, in the U.S.) and even still finding time for dating.

University was no different for Courtorielle. She completed her bachelor's degree in three years and added a master's degree a year later. The social clubs pursued her vigorously to join but she showed them no interest whatsoever. She even angered a few of them by comparing them publicly to the Greek sororities in America. Despite this, she remained a popular figure on campus and was never without dates when she wanted them. She was, after all, an attractive, intelligent girl, even if she was a bit outspoken.

It was only when she began pursuing a Ph.D. that Courtorielle began to slow down somewhat. She knew she would be in for a struggle when she defended her thesis and wanted to get everything just right. Even then, she completed it all in sixteen months. Now she was in a quandary. She was pushing twenty-four, had reached the pinnacle of academic achievement, and did not really know where to go next. She decided to stay on at Swansea University, easily landing a teaching post despite her appearance, and taught a few classes per term.

The money was decent, but Courtorielle hated it. She did not want to stay in academia her whole life. Yes, she enjoyed her chosen topic, but she wanted to expand herself beyond the walls of a university. There was more out there besides libraries and professors seeking their next publication.

Two events had given Courtorielle hope in her future. One had been a cheeky student at the university, Robyn Radway. The young woman had come to Courtorielle's office with a question regarding Persian history and, so engaging had the conversation become, she had not left for several hours. Radway, Courtorielle had learned, already had three language degrees at nineteen, and was working on her own master's in Arabic and another in German. After the term had ended, the two women became more open in their friendship and began being seen having drinks together in town. Even though both of their tastes were for men, they even went on a semi-date together.

The other item of interest for Courtorielle had been her meeting with an American businessman a few months ago. At least, she had assumed he was American at the time. A few minutes of conversation and hearing his impossible-to-place accent soon made her think otherwise. She had met him while shopping in London. He had never said why he had been there, now that she thought of it. The two of them struck up a conversation easily enough, her initially commenting under her breath about the prices of the food at the restaurant she was attending. He, a table across, had chuckled and suggested ordering from the left side of the menu rather than the right.

"Deal with the consequences later. Enjoy the food now," he said.

"Ha!" she had replied. "I can do that maybe once a year. I'm barely out of uni, after all."

"Then you took a risk just gracing the doors of this establishment, my lady," he said, turning to face her for the first time. To Courtorielle's surprise, he showed no reaction whatsoever to her piercings, clothing, or randomly colored hair. He just looked into her blue eyes and smiled.

Courtorielle laughed. "I didn't know that when I came here. I just thought it looked nice and wandered in."

"Be glad you got a table, then," he chuckled. "Well, as I said, don't let the price be a deterrent. Allow me to treat you, if I may."

"That's very kind of you, Mister…?"

"Ashton. David Ashton."

"Thank you, Mr. Ashton. I'm Nicola Courtorielle." She held out her hand and, after he shook it, invited him to join her at her table.

Courtorielle placed her order, taking Ashton's suggestion - or, as she saw it, calling his bluff - and ordering what she wanted without looking at the price.

_Let's see what you think of that, guy. That has to be a hundred fifty pounds worth of food. And that's not counting the starter you ordered._

Courtorielle could not keep the little smirk off her face as she finished telling the waiter her order. She looked at Ashton to gauge his response.

_Is that shock or admiration I see? It's hard to tell. Your face is almost blank. There's just the slightest of expression there._

Regardless of what she thought she saw in Ashton's visage, she was not prepared for what he did next. His order dwarfed hers in price. From her recall of the menu, the wine alone cost as much as her entire meal, his entree almost double the wine. He regarded her with a more obvious smile when he concluded his recitation of his order.

"Are you sure you wouldn't like to add anything else, Ms. Courtorielle?" he asked her.

"No," she replied, blushing. "I think I'm fine for now. Thank you."

Ashton nodded to the waiter and the man walked off. The blond man continued smiling. Courtorielle tried not to squirm under his examination of her.

"Tell me about yourself, Ms. Courtorielle. Besides wandering into high-priced restaurants, what else do you do?" He sat back, crossing a leg over a knee, and relaxed his gaze.

Only now did Courtorielle actually notice Ashton's attire. It was casual and neat, but spoke very much of a man of means. Even though she herself did not dress as such, she was very much aware of the fashion trends of the day. This man knew them, as well, and he knew where to get the best of them. The collared polo shirt he wore must have cost him at least two hundred pounds. She glanced at his trousers. They were of the four hundred pound variety easily. The one casual shoe she saw was of a style she knew cost at least two thousand pounds for a pair.

_So that's why he so willingly let me order whatever I wanted,_ she thought. _This guy is loaded._

"Besides an occasional shopping trip in London for oddities, which I don't do very often since it's a long trip for me, I teach at Swansea University. I've been doing that for the last two years now."

"Do you enjoy it?" he asked her.

_Why do I think you already know the answer to that?_

"My degree is in Middle Eastern culture and religions. I enjoy the topic, yes. I don't like the teaching. I liked it at first, but now it's just repetition and I find that dull."

"What would you rather do?"

"I'm not sure. I would like to use what I have learned in a more expansive way. I know that. I just haven't figured out what that should be yet. How's that? Only twenty-six and I'm already lost in life."

Ashton laughed. "You'll find people far older than that who are lost, as well. Some never find their way. Have you thought about professions outside of the university?"

"Oh, yes, but, like I said, I really don't know what kind they would be. I do have a rather specialized knowledge base, after all. I can't necessarily walk into a Tesco's and ask for a job when I have a Ph.D. in Middle Eastern religions, can I?"

"You could," Ashton replied with a smile, "and if they hired you at all, they would expect you to leave soon since you are so overqualified."

"Exactly. I started looking around a little bit a few months ago, you know, behind the scenes, and that is what I have heard all the time. Overqualified. It's maddening. It's like I've credentialed myself out of the job market. I hate to think it to myself sometimes, but I think that, if I were a man, I wouldn't have this much of a difficulty. It's like everyone wants me to do administrative work or just sit around and be pretty simply because I'm a woman."

Ashton nodded, a trace of the smile still on his face. He was about to comment when the food arrived. He remained silent while the waiter distributed the plates. Once the man had left, Ashton answered her.

"What if you could compete for positions in a new company - or any company - completely independent of your gender? Be judged solely on your skills and what you could contribute to the organization?"

"That would be my dream," Courtorielle responded. "Where could I find such a fantasy?"

Laughing softly, Ashton said, "By working for me. That is how I hire. I don't care about age, gender, politics, or any other demographic. In my companies, the only thing that matters is what you can do. That is why you will find thirty-year old women in charge of fifty-year old men. The women, in that case, are better organizers and leaders than the men. In other situations, it's the opposite. Everyone competes and everyone lands where they are most qualified. I've found it brings out the best in everyone and advances the organization's needs the most."

"So no sitting around just getting promoted simply because you have tenure, then?"

"Hell, no," said Ashton. "The fastest way to lose a job with me is to stop producing and start simply occupying a chair. I'll have none of that."

"Even a secretary?" Courtorielle asked.

"A secretary?" Ashton repeated, grinning again. "A good secretary is never idle. There is always something that needs to be done and I'm not talking about office gossip or online games, either. You can spend years in a job, like a secretary, but you will be working while you are there. If you have time for idleness, you are either not being managed properly or you are not needed in the company. It's one or the other."

"Tough rules."

"In business, when there is a profit margin on the line and jobs at stake, there have to be tough rules. If they are not put into place and followed, the business goes down and everyone loses their jobs."

Ashton pointed a finger at himself and continued. "When you hear talk of business, many of the unenlightened think only of the business owner like myself. They see the one guy in the nice clothes and think, "Oh, what does he really suffer if the company loses money?" But it's not about me. It never is. I rarely make a salary from my companies anyway. I make my money in other ways. When those businesses lose money, it's hundreds or thousands of other people that no one ever considers that lose their jobs, that really suffer, in order for the business itself to stay afloat. Some have to go in order for the rest to stay. Do you see what I mean?"

"I think so," said Courtorielle. "It's kind of like musical chairs. As the seats are taken away, there are too many people to fill them. You only have so many spaces to fill and the rest lose out."

"That's not a bad analogy. And it goes the other way, as well. When the business grows, there are more seats. Well, what I am offering you, tentatively, is a completely new set of seats. I am working on the first steps of a new corporation in the U.K. I will need people for that corporation with particular skills. It just so happens that knowledge of the Middle East is among that skill set. Now, I am not promising you anything. Know that up front. You will have to compete against other candidates and win out against them. I think, though, from what I have gleaned talking to you today, that you will do very well."

The conversation had digressed from there to other topics ranging from Ashton's businesses to Courtorielle's social life. In the end, Courtorielle had had a wondrous time with the visiting businessman and had passed on her contact information gladly. He had given her an email address and told her to expect to hear from him in late 1999 or early 2000. He still had some details to work out with other "partners," as he called them and would not start interviews until that work had concluded.

Since then, Courtorielle had continued with the drudgery of teaching and the more invigorating work of Middle East research and the occasional visit with Robyn Radway. She even wondered if Ashton would be interested in having a woman like Radway work for him, given her language skills. She had mentioned the idea to Radway but, for once, the woman seemed unsure of herself. Her, a nineteen-year old uni student, quit school and go to work for some strange American? That was a bit much, wasn't it?

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12 September 1999  
Edinburgh, Scotland

"This is a good start, Adam. Keep up the great work."

"We will, sir. We still have a long way to go before we're finished, though." Adam Matzel sounded tired. Alan Ottenbreit was sure the man was exhausted. He was not the type to push his men without driving himself just as hard.

"Have some patience, Adam. There were thirteen hundred three Immortals in Europe when we began. It will take time to cleanse them all. Pace yourself."

"Yes, sir. We will." Matzel sighed. "We could use an infusion from Harlan whenever he finishes training his group, though. More men would help greatly."

"I'll pass the word to him. It won't be long before you see the results of his first class."

"Good," said Matzel. "We already had one hiccup in Austria. It cost us five men. There will be others."

"We expected casualties all along, Adam. That was part of the plan."

"Ones and twos, yes. Not five at a time, a whole cell."

"As you said yourself about plans, Adam…"

"Yes, very true. And speaking of plans, I should mention the other one, Checkmate. We've exhausted the entire list. We'll need a new one before we can continue with that plan.

"Don't worry, Adam. I have my own contingency plan for that. I'll have a new list for you guys soon. Just be patient."

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14 September 1999  
Stuttgart, Germany

David Ashton shook hands with General Honnecker and Charles Ulrich, smiling as he did so. He had not seen either man in a decade and was glad to do so again. Honnecker introduced the Minoan to his three assistants. The other Immortals were known to Ashton by reputation, but this was the first time he had met them. Lawrence Channing was American and had come into Honnecker's service soon after the United States completed its civil war. Only thirty-six when he became Immortal, he was now one hundred seventy-four. Viktor Petrov was Russian by birth and the oldest physically at forty-two though he was eighty years older than Channing. The oldest, by far, in total years, fourteen hundred twenty-eight, and the youngest in biological years, at twenty-nine, was Jasper Marion, or Sachiro as he said his original Mayan name was.

Each man gave Ashton a brief summary of how they came to be under the General's command and how they were happy to be so. They also expressed their respect for Ashton's own reputation and pleasure for having at last having met him. Ashton shook their hands and welcomed them to the small team resisting the Hunters. He then turned to the General and asked for an update of the situation so far. Honnecker led them into his dining room and made sure each man had the drink and cigar of his choice before he began. Ashton offered the seat at the head of the table to Honnecker but the general refused, insisting Ashton take it.

"I received an anonymous phone call on the twenty-fifth of last month from a man claiming to be something called a Watcher. He said Watchers are an organization which maintains surveillance on Immortals and keeps records of our lives."

Ashton nodded at this. "I'm aware of them," he replied.

"You are?" Honnecker asked. "For how long have you known about them?"

"Since 1929," Ashton answered.

Honnecker looked around the room, smirking. "And here I thought I was the one who was good at keeping secrets."

"Please continue, General," asked Ashton.

Honnecker cleared his throat. "Yes. Well, this caller said that a rogue group of Watchers, whom he dubbed Hunters, had begun a campaign of murdering Immortals throughout Europe since about the middle of last month. He said that since the fifteenth to the date he called, forty-six Immortals had been killed. Just from reading the news reports across the continent and separating out stories mentioning beheadings, we can glean that there have been at least fifty more since that time. This is a well coordinated campaign."

Ashton raised a finger. "Did your caller mention anything regarding the number of Immortals in Europe or the number of Hunters he thought we might be facing?"

"As far as the number of Hunters, he only spoke in generalities. He said such uprisings had occurred in the past, but always in small numbers, ten or fifteen at a time. He believes this group to be significantly larger. The documents he emailed to me after the call, from an anonymous Hotmail account, I should add, mentioned slightly over thirteen hundred Immortals in Europe." Honnecker held up the printout of the documents he mentioned and slid the thick packet across the table to Ashton. The Minoan picked it up and perused it as he continued listening.

"We believe the Hunters are operating as independent cells for security reasons. _Oberst_ (Colonel) Ulrich and I successfully took down one cell of Hunters in Austria recently. From there, we were able to obtain limited information about some of the Immortals they were targeting and warn them. We did not learn anything further regarding the identities of other Hunters or their whereabouts. Since that time, we have had our people out searching for any information which might lead us in the direction of other cells."

Ashton nodded. Dividing into small cells for such operations made perfect sense. It was a common practice in guerrilla operations. It allowed for freedom of movement for a small group and security of the larger group. If one cell was compromised and captured or destroyed, the other cells were in no danger because the compromised cell did not know where they were or who was in them. There would be a control cell somewhere which knew the composition and location of all of the others. Finding it would be a critical task in stamping out the Hunters. But how?

"Have they found anything yet?" Ashton queried.

"So far, only rumors. They're investigating further," Honnecker replied. "And those rumors spread as far as Scotland to Russia. It will take some time to check them all."

"Anything on the identities of any of the Hunters, particularly their leadership?" Ashton asked the general.

"The only name we have right now is apparently a low-level Watcher named Michael Crouse. _Oberst_ Ulrich is following up on that lead."

"And what have you learned so far, Charles?"

Ulrich sipped his brandy and turned his gaze to Ashton. "Crouse is American and currently running operations in North America. We learned of him from an unencrypted email from one of the Hunter's computers. There is a possibility, of course, that he is just an innocent Watcher, but the language in the email seems to indicate otherwise. We have also found some news reports of apparent Immortal killings in North America but at nowhere near the scale as in Europe. We believe it to be a distraction operation since that is where the majority of the previous Hunter activity has been located."

"From the frustrated tone I caught in the voice of my unknown caller," added Honnecker, "he believes the distraction is working. He described a "piss poor reaction" from the Watcher leadership in Europe."

Asthon smiled at this. "Sounds like a soldier complaining about the inaction of his officers during a crisis."

"I thought the same," replied Honnecker. "I definitely detected an air of prior military about the man. I do not know what position he holds in the Watcher Organization, but it is certainly high enough to know that at last some of those in charge are dragging their feet."

"One of the rules of the Watchers is to not interfere with the lives of Immortals," stated Ashton. "They are essentially historians. They observe us and write down the facts. That is supposed to be the extent of it. Injecting themselves into our day-to-day lives is forbidden. It's one of their most extreme rules. I have even read of them executing Watchers for violating that prohibition. It's possible their leadership sees reacting to the Hunters as a breach of that rule."

"But haven't they stepped in to stop Hunters in the past?" asked Petrov.

"I would imagine so," said Ashton. "I have heard only rumors of such things before and there was little about them which stated how the problems were overcome. It may have been Immortals who stopped them or it may have been the Watchers themselves. I do not know."

"Do we have a way to contact these Watchers?" This question came from Channing.

Honnecker shook his head. "Other than the email address which was used to send me that," he pointed at the packet in Ashton's hands, "I know of no method to reach them. I don't even know if that account is being actively monitored. General Ashton, do you know a way?"

"Please, Max," replied Ashton, waving a hand, "the last time I held general's rank was 1871."

"And, the last time I checked, you were also once known as Themistocles, Hannibal, and Alexander, all great generals. I believe that would make the rank permanent regardless of what grade you may have held this century. Besides, I am asking you to lead this campaign against the Hunters while I take a supporting role. This is more your type of war, not mine."

Ashton nodded and sat back in his seat, motioning for the general to continue. In front of him, the other Immortals, except Honnecker and Ulrich, gawked openly at the revelation of some of his previous identities.

"I believe you are right, Lawrence, and we should try to contact this unnamed Watcher," Honnecker resumed. "He may have other information which could be of use to us. I will respond to the email address and see what happens.

"What about you, General? You knew about the Watchers before any of us. Do you have a way by which they can be contacted?"

Ashton shook his head. "I do not. One of my associates, Darren Dublin, was contacted by one of them back in 1986. It was only that one time. That was the only time I ever heard of a Watcher reaching out to an Immortal. It looks like your email address is our only avenue."

Marion spoke up at this time. "How can these people have remained such ghosts all this time? How long have they been watching us?"

"According to their own history, for about four thousand years, since the first of them saw Gilgamesh coming back to life."

"Wait," interrupted Channing. "Gilgamesh was real? Not just a character in a story?"

"Apparently so," replied Ashton. "They've been watching us ever since."

"How do we identify these Watchers if we see them?" asked Marion.

Ashton held up the first page of the packet in his hands and pointed to the blue symbol at the top. "In past ages, all Watchers wore a medallion of the symbol of their organization. In modern times, each Watcher has this symbol tattooed on their inner wrist. The challenge, of course, is seeing them at all. They are very skilled in surveillance and remaining unseen themselves."

"They would have to be," interjected Ulrich, "to be able to surveil us for so long and not be detected."

"Exactly," agreed Ashton. "Being spotted could be quite dangerous for them depending on the Immortal they're watching. Invisibility is their security."

"How do we fight phantoms?" Petrov inquired.

"Only the Watchers remain hidden," reminded Ashton. "The Hunters have to come out in the open to attack us."

"I don't much care for waiting for the wolves to come for us to have a chance to grab them by the hide," declared Marion.

"Nor do I," said Ashton grimly. "At the moment, though, it's all we have. We have to try to take one of them alive and shake some information out of him."

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15 September 1999  
New York, New York  
The Rose Bar  
The Gramercy Park Hotel

"I have to say, Taiki, you really know how to show a guy a good time." Locke grinned at his friend as he downed another whiskey sour. He raised his hand to the waitress to signal for another. She nodded to him with a smile. Locke leaned against the plush cushioned seat and admired the Andy Warhol paintings on the wall. He had always been a fan of the artist's work. He wondered if that was partially why Tokawa had brought him here or if it was just a happy coincidence.

Regardless, he was astounded by the beauty of the place. At the end of the solid walnut bar was a hand-carved limestone fireplace and Douglas fir columns. This far north, a chill was setting into the air so the fire was a welcome sight. The scenery around the fire added to its enjoyment all the more. Locke stood and ambled over to the fireplace to take in its welcome heat. Tokawa followed him, a dopey drunken grin on his face.

"I tell you this a good place, Vincent." Strangely, Tokawa's English always improved somewhat when he drank. "I always like coming here. Is fun place." Tokawa stared into the flames as if hypnotized. "Fire is pretty," he commented.

"Careful," cautioned Locke. "Don't get too close and burn yourself, Taiki."

Tokawa turned his eyes to Locke as if surprised by the fact that fire burns. Starting to sway in time with the motion of the flames, he smiled at his friend. "You're right, Vincent. I be careful."

"What are you doing, Taiki?"

"I dance. Drinking make me want to dance." Tokawa continued to move in time to music only he could hear. It certainly wasn't along with the tune being played by the disc jockey across the room. Laughing to himself, Tokawa reached out to a passing woman. Her gait indicated she just might be as drunk as he.

"Want dance?" he asked her.

"Surre," she slurred, approaching him.

Locke took a few steps back and watched as the two drunkards gyrated with each other. The couple began to draw a small crowd of cheering drinkers. Before long, they had ten or so revelers clapping and encouraging them to continue. Tokawa stumbled once and took a few clumsy steps toward the fireplace. Catching himself before he dove headfirst into the fire, he stared into the bright flames for a moment. He turned back to face his dancing partner.

"Drink and fire make me too hot," he announced. "Too many clothes." With that, he shucked his suit jacket and began loosening his tie. The drunk woman giggled and began to follow his example. Her fingers began to awkwardly unbutton her blouse. The crowd began to cheer louder. The DJ, noticing what was happening, announced the event for everyone in the room. Other patrons rushed to see the hot young woman and crazy Japanese man as they stripped.

Tokawa finally finished unbuttoning his silk dress shirt, only breaking off two buttons in the process, and pulled the garment off his body. Only a white t-shirt concealed his upper body. He whirled the shirt over his head, whooping with glee.

"I not Taiki Tokawa tonight. I now Taiki Toff."

The gathered crowd roared with laughter at Tokawa's joke. The volume of their laughter grew as the twirling shirt slipped from his fingers and flew behind him…directly into the fireplace. The shirt erupted instantly into flames. Cheering with glee, Tokawa's drunken partner, now free from her blouse, balled up the vestment in her hand. It followed Tokawa's shirt into the flames. She stood in her skirt and brassiere, laughing merrily. Seeing Tokawa reach to remove his t-shirt, she also put her hands behind her to unclasp the bra. The crowd cheered again.

"Alright, folks, hold it right there."

The cheering diminished. Heads turned toward the source of the bellowed command. The bartender was waving his hands over his head trying to gain everyone's attention. From the man's expression, he did not want to say the words he was about to utter as much as the patrons did not want to hear them.

"I'm sorry, folks. You're going to have to keep some acceptable level of clothing on or you'll have to leave." He squinted in the dark room at the woman near Tokawa. "It might be best if that lady went home anyway," he added.

"You're right," said a young man stepping out of the crowd toward the woman. "She's my girlfriend. I'll see she gets back to our room safely." The young man glanced at Tokawa and grinned. "Thank you for making her so happy."

Tokawa returned the grin and gave the man a thumbs-up. "Was my pleasure." He put a hand to his head and stumbled. Locke stepped forward in time to offer his steadying support. Tokawa leaned on his shoulder for balance.

"Come on, Taiki," he said. "I think it's time to go now."

"So what you think about job?" Tokawa asked him when they were in a cab a few minutes later.

Locke smiled at his friend and pushed him against the far door so he could pass out. As the Japanese man's eyes closed, Locke said, "Sure, Taiki, I'll take the job. I can't leave you here alone, can I?"

"Good," replied Tokawa, drifting away. "Tell me tomorrow to pay temp handyman to stay for another month until they hire replacement."

"Sure, Taiki, I'll tell you," promised Locke, but Tokawa was already snoring.


	12. Down On One Knee

Chapter 11  
Down on One Knee

"You don't know how you took it  
You just know what you've got  
Oh Lordy, you've been stealing  
From the thieves and you got caught"

"Hold Me, Thrill Me, Kiss Me, Kill Me" - U2

16 September 1999  
Coventry, England

Fiona Black squirmed nervously in the straight-backed wooden chair. She was not happy in the slightest with her current accommodations. The cheap motel in which they were currently hiding did not suit her in the slightest. The young woman's large eyes sought out her husband and locked in on him.

"I'm scared, Julian. I want to go home."

"We can't go back right now, Fiona," answered Julian. "It's just too dangerous right now. Those people killed the Sutherlands and I'm sure they'll do the same to us."

Fiona shuddered at the comment. Kane Sutherland, their neighbor, like her husband, had been Immortal, but his wife, Lauren, was not. She had been mortal like Fiona. Whoever their killers had been, they did not care about who they killed as long as they got the Immortal, as well. The Blacks, their intended visit with the Sutherlands disrupted by the discovery of their bodies, had fled Birmingham immediately and taken up residence in a motel in nearby Coventry. They had not left the motel for six days.

Fiona jumped at the knock at the motel room door. Julian waved a hand at her, motioning for her to be calm. He had sensed the approach of the visitor moments before, his expression told her. The woman let out her breath and nodded to him. He opened the door to reveal Michael De Lioncourt. The Frenchman said nothing as he entered, merely nodding to the two wordlessly as Julian shut the door behind him.

"Thank you for coming, Michael," Julian said in greeting.

"It's the least I could do for a friend," replied De Lioncourt softly, shaking the man's hand. "How are you, Fiona?"

"Scared," the woman said, a tremble in her voice. "I miss my home and I don't like being here. I feel like a caged animal."

De Lioncourt nodded. After Glasgow, he had experienced a similar sensation of perpetual pursuit. Nowhere seemed safe to him and he felt the need to move every few days.

"Do you have any idea who these people are, Michael?" asked Julian.

"No," De Lioncourt answered, shaking his head and sitting at the table across from Fiona while Julian sat on the bed. "All I know is this sort of thing is happening all across Great Britain. I've checked a few of the foreign papers, as well, and similar attacks seem to be occurring across Europe. There is no safe place anywhere."

"What about America?" suggested Fiona. "The U.S.?"

De Lioncourt shook his head again. "It's there, too. There are attacks reported in New York, Toronto, and San Francisco."

"Then we're trapped," said Julian. "No matter where we go, we're at risk of being found by these people and killed."

Fiona shuddered and ran her hands along the goosebumps on her arms. "What do we do?"

"We can either continue to hide and wait to die," said De Lioncourt, "or we can find others like us, band together, and fight back somehow."

"Fight back?" repeated Julian. "Fight how?"

"I don't know yet," said De Lioncourt. "I'm still trying to figure that out myself."

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16 September 1999  
Atlanta, Georgia

Jonny Fairbanks checked his bags one last time. He hated packing to move and he was finally done with it. He would only take the essentials on the plane with him this time. His new guardians in Seattle, Todd and Sheila Whitaker, had arranged for the rest to travel by moving service. It would arrive a few days later by truck. Fairbanks had supervised the loading of that truck yesterday. He only had to put his one suitcase and one carry-on in the taxi when it arrived in a few minutes.

Fairbanks walked through the house one last time, letting the memories within it wash over him. He had lived here for six years. While that was not a lot of time in Immortal years, it was plenty of time for experiences to pile up. Remembering them as he stepped through each empty room was enough to make his eyes misty. Leaving home was never easy.

_I've done this countless times in my life. Why is it always so hard?_

Was it because of the connections he made each time? The experiences at each location? He did not know. All he did know was his heart broke each time he had to sever his hold on each place he had once called home. Rebuilding those attachments at a new place and with new people was difficult and always took time and a great deal of effort. Sometimes he even toyed with the idea of remaining an outcast from it all, wondering if it might simply be easier to be separate from others entirely.

He shook his head. He had tried that in the past. It had never gone well for him. He always ended up turning to the darker side of his own nature, leaning on the escape of drugs, sex, and sometimes violence to overcome the loneliness he felt. That path had nearly destroyed him several times. Only the intervention of his friends had saved him. He had to admit that, despite his eight centuries of life, he was still a fourteen-year old boy and had all of the psychological needs of any teen. No, Fairbanks was not a solitary creature. He needed human interaction. He needed affection and family like any boy.

Would he find that with the Whitakers? He had to believe so. They were friends of David Ashton. He had arranged the guardianship. He trusted them to take care of him. Fairbanks told himself he had to trust them to take care of his needs, as well.

_I do so dislike sometimes not having grown up before becoming Immortal,_ he thought._ I keep getting caught up in these damn teenage emotional whirlwinds…like a bloody baby. I know it's completely irrational and yet I can't help it. I want to be able to take care of myself but, in so many ways, I'm completely dependent on others to do it for me._

_I can fight. I can kill. I've done it hundreds of times when other Immortals have tried to kill me. I hate it so much. It's the hardest, most disgusting thing I have to do to stay alive and yet, somehow, it's still easier than having to ask others to do things for me. Why? Because it's something I can do myself. I'd rather kill a hundred Immortals or seduce a thousand girls than ask anyone to be my guardian, damn it. I want love, not a parent. I want friends, not guardians._

The taxi pulled up in front of the house and honked its horn. Fairbanks wiped the tears from his eyes and threw his carry-on bag over his shoulder. He locked the front door and put the key under the doormat. Dragging his wheeled suitcase behind him, he took one last look at the house that had once been his home and walked away.

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16 September 1999  
Lavernock, Wales

The man sat behind a small house located at the far southwest of the tiny village. In his hand, he held a bottle of beer and nursed it slowly as he gazed across the shore into the waters of Bristol Channel. Paderau Griffin enjoyed this view from his house and spent as much time as possible here. The sound of the water and the wildlife nearby was pure bliss. The Welshman had spent many of his eight hundred seventy-one years in rugged conditions. It was good to relax, at times, and just enjoy life.

Griffin had spent the majority of his life as a soldier, in one form or another, and had seen most of the world as a result. Whether he had seen the best or worst of that world, he could only guess. Since buying this little house four years ago, he had simply told the townsfolk that he was "retired" and said nothing more about his previous profession. Rumors abounded, of course, and he had even heard many of them. Some of them were quite comical. He let them all go unanswered while he enjoyed his beer and the view.

While he still kept fit and maintained his proficiency with his sword, he did little else that would be called work. He was not slovenly. He did the dishes and his laundry, but had a local teenager cut his grass and do his shopping for him. He entertained himself with books, long walks, swimming, and, of course, the view. It was a good life.

Then the phone rang. It was not a common occurrence. When it happened, normally it was a wrong number. At first, Griffin debated not answering the infernal thing. On the second ring, he decided otherwise, muttering, "Ah, hell," as he stood.

"Paderau Griffin," he announced into the handset, standing by the phone on the wall. He still had an old-fashioned wall-mounted model. In his mind, he did not spend enough time on the phone to bother having one near a chair or his couch.

"The great Pad Griffin," said a familiar voice. "I do hope retirement is treating you well."

"It was," said Griffin, a smirk forming on his lips. "But if you're calling me, Ashton, it tells me that my retirement's about to end. You're not the type who uses the telephone for social calls."

"Very true" said Ashton with a light chuckle. "I need your help. And a few other good people, as well. There is a problem afoot and I need the right people to correct it."

"Well, you've got me. I know some others. I'll make some calls. Where do you want us to meet you?"

"Winchester. In a few days. I'll send you specifics by email. You do have that out there, don't you?"

"Of course. I'm not _completely_ cut off from civilization."

"Good. Reach out to who you can. We'll talk more soon."

"Will do, sir. Out here."

"Goodbye, Pad."

Griffin set the phone back on its hook and rubbed his hands together. He didn't realize until this moment how much he wanted something like this. He had not been bored. Far from it. But a little spice, a little flare wouldn't hurt at all, would it?

xxxxxxxxxx

16 September 1999  
Paris, France

Ashton dialled another number and waited. After the fourth ring, he wondered if the man on the other side of the Atlantic was going to answer at all. He began to ponder who an alternate for this task might be. Then Payton Swift answered the phone.

"Hello?"

"Payton? It's David Ashton."

"David? It's been a while. Three years or so, I think. What can I do for you?"

"Are you still in your previous profession?"

"I am."

"Excellent. Give me your email address, please." Swift recited it. "I am going to send you some information," said Ashton. "I'd like for you to meet me in Winchester, England in a few days to discuss it. Can you do that?"

"Of course. The standard rates?"

"Triple."

"Shit! That bad."

"Yes."

"Alright. Send me the info. I'll get right on it."

xxxxxxxxxx

Swift opened the email and read quickly through the message. His jaw dropped. Hunters? He had heard of them, mostly as a theory, of mortals knowing the existence of Immortals and seeking to destroy them, but this was the first time he had seen anything verifying their existence. No wonder Ashton was so willing to pay top dollar to acquire his services.

Well, Payton Swift would be sure to give the man the best work he knew how. Swift was not just a private investigator. He was one of the best undercover operatives in the world. All he needed was the right information and the right opportunity to use it and he could infiltrate any organization. His previous work inside the Mafia and the Columbian cartels had proven that much.

Swift puzzled over what little he knew for sure about Hunters. There wasn't much on which he could base a cover. Even the information contained in Ashton's email told him only a few basics. All he could do right now was prepare his equipment, travel to the U.K, and hope Ashton was able to find something useful for him to exploit soon.

"If he doesn't, I'll either lounge around at his expense until he does or come back here and wonder when these Hunters will come knocking on this side of the pond."

xxxxxxxxxx

17 September 1999  
Flight 729  
Over the Atlantic Ocean

"More wine, sir?" asked the grinning stewardess of the red-haired man studiously typing on his laptop computer.

The man looked up at her, his face momentarily confused as he switched his attention from his work to her question. He then returned her grin. It was a very pleasant expression, charming even.

"Yes, please," he replied, handing her his glass. "And may I have a bit more of the cheese, crackers, and fruit selection from the front bar, as well, please?" He proffered his empty saucer to her, also.

"Certainly, sir. One moment, please." The pretty brunette turned and made her way toward the front of the plane to fulfill his request.

Alan Ottenbreit kept the smile on his face. He always enjoyed the additional perks of first class flying, especially for intercontinental travel. The Watchers, of course, would prefer he travelled by coach class for budgetary reasons. He always charged the coach class to the Watchers' account and upgraded from his own funds. It was worth the expense, in his mind, for the added luxury, even though sometimes that luxury was slight compared to coach. In the case of cross-continental flights, though, that difference was not the case. There was a significant range between the commoners in the back of the plane and those happy few in the front. The wine he was drinking was just a small part of it.

Ottenbreit glanced back at his laptop. Internet connectivity was still not an option on airline flights, however, so he had downloaded all of his new email prior to leaving the Hunter compound. There was a great deal of it intermixed with the normal Watcher messages. He had to maintain the appearance of being a good District Director, after all. He could still answer the various messages and have the responses sit in the send queue until he had connectivity once again.

This next part of the operation required his presence in the United States. He would be there in the next few hours and would oversee operations there for at least a week, maybe two. The amount of time depended greatly upon the outcome of the first few days.

"Thank you very much," said Ottenbreit to the stewardess, receiving his wine and snacks from her.

"You're welcome, sir," she answered and moved on to assist the next person in the cabin. Ottenbreit turned his attention back to his laptop once more.

There was still much to do in Europe. Emilio Gironelli and his fifteen Hunters in North America were providing a useful distraction, but it would not be long before he would need to call them back to Europe. With so many Immortals left to kill, they would need every Hunter they had. Half of their numbers were already sliced off and under the tutelage of Harlan Earnshaw. It would still be a while before Ottenbreit saw any fruit borne from those labors.

Ottenbreit continued typing but his thoughts were elsewhere. This North American operation he was about to oversee was critical to the second phase of the cleansing of Immortals. It was essential that the operation succeed. That was why Ottenbreit was going to be present in the first place. All of Gironelli's men were being pulled in from across the continent for this mission. That alone was a testament to its importance.

xxxxxxxxxx

17 September 1999  
Berkeley, California

Ruth Okin opened weary eyes and searched for her ringing cellular phone. It was singing _Ode to Joy_ and vibrating on the bedside table. She moaned and slapped at it, bringing it to her ear.

"Hello?" Realizing she forgot to open the clamshell device, she tried again. "Hello?"

"Ruth? It's Omeir. Can you talk?"

"Omeir?" she repeated, some of her lethargy fading. "Yes. What's wrong?"

"Did I wake you?"

"Well, yes," she admitted, swinging her legs to the side of the bed. "It's three o'clock in the morning. I'm in California right now teaching a course in corporate leadership. Where are you?"

"I apologize. I'm in Paris. Looks like I'm nine hours ahead of you, then, instead of one. I thought you were still in England."

"Simple mistake," Okin stated. She switched on the lamp and looked around the hotel room for the countertop refrigerator. She wanted a bottle of water. "What's up with the call. You're normally an email type of guy."

"Like I said, I'm in Paris. I'm staying at David MacBane's place. Also, I couldn't remember your email address."

Okin laughed aloud. "You, Omeir Faaris, who recalls everything, couldn't remember my email address?"

Faaris allowed himself a moment of nervous laughter, as well. "Stranger things have happened. I was able to remember your phone number, though, so I tried that."

"So to what do I owe this early morning call?" she asked, carrying the phone to the refrigerator. She twisted the top off a water bottle and downed half of the contents.

"Have you seen the news over here?"

"No, I've been in the States for the last three months. What's happening?"

"I don't really like saying this over the phone, but there's not much choice. There are mortals killing Immortals. I don't know how they know who we are, but they do, and they're ambushing us and killing us all over Europe."

"Oh, my God."

"Some of them tried to take me down at my apartment in Belarus. I was able to escape and MacBane is letting me lay low at his Parisian house. I've been researching the problem and this is happening all over the continent. The papers aren't saying it's Immortals, of course, but it mentions beheadings and that's enough of a giveaway. I'm reaching out to the others I know and warning them. And I want to ask for help. I think we need to band together and try to fight this, if we can."

"Absolutely," agreed Okin. She took another gulp of water. "Today is Friday. It's the last day of my class. I'm scheduled to be on a plane back to the U.K. tomorrow. I can change to a flight to Paris and meet you at your house."

"That would be excellent. Thank you."

"Okay, you stay safe until I get there."

"I will. See you soon."

"Goodbye, Omeir."

"Goodbye, Ruth."

Okin put the phone back on the bedside table and sat on the bed. She laid down again and stared up at the ceiling, unsure if sleep would come back to her. Faaris' words were such a punch in the gut that her mind was whirling. Mortals killing Immortals. It was such a surreal thought. In her entire two thousand years she had never heard of such a thing. And how could Immortals fight back against such a threat? It's not like they could sense the approach of hostile mortals like they could other Immortals. How could they tell the good mortals from the bad?


	13. Tools of Foul Play

Chapter 12  
Tools of Foul Play

"Flying tools of torment  
Will penetrate the sphere  
Erupt the rock of ages  
Bringing final fear"

"Instruments of Destruction" - N.R.G.

18 September 1999  
Seattle, Washington

So, David Ashton was gone. They had both known the time would come when they would have to leave one another, not just relocating together. It had happened before during their long lives, but it was never a happy parting. Although Ashton had found Jonathan a new guardian, the boy, part of him, the wariness of an Immortal, suspected treachery. He knew that was foolish, and he felt guilty for even thinking it. Ashton was a master swordsman, and could have had Fairbanks' head at any time had he wanted the boy out of the way. Fairbanks smiled. He was eight hundred years old, but Ashton could still call him "boy" for what was eight hundred years to one who had lived over four millennia, to one of the ancients?

Fairbanks exited the plane in Seattle, Washington. It had been a long flight from Georgia, made even longer by a delay for mechanical reasons which had required a two-day stopover in Chicago. He didn't mind. Time was not as much a concern to an Immortal. He had lived many human lifetimes and had the potential to live forever, though he doubted he would be the One. That was, of course, if that prophecy was true. David Ashton had expressed doubts about the truth of it. He had said, also, that he had encountered other ancients who shared this doubt, though none of them were old enough to know for certain. They knew as little of their origins and purpose as mortals did of theirs. If the prophecy was a false one, then it was created in a time so distant upon the earth that no Immortal, that they knew of, still lived who remembered a time before its formulation.

Fairbanks walked through the Seattle airport lugging his carryon bag. He still had to claim his suitcase which contained his wakizashi, but would first need to make a phone call. Ashton had given him a number to call when he got there, the number of the Whitakers. They would have been waiting for him had the flight gone as planned. Nothing seemed to be going as planned since he had gotten on the plane, though.

He went to a phone and put the bag at his feet while he made the call. But as he dialed, he became aware of others, as he might when feeling the presence of another Immortal, the wariness, but without the presence. It was the awareness of haragei, the perfect, almost mystical, oneness of a human with his environment. A haragei adept could sense the presence of mortals, especially other adepts or other potential enemies, almost as easily as Immortals could sense the presence of each other. It was yet another skill he had learned during his time with Ashton. He was not as skilled at the perception as Ashton, not by far, but he still noticed something was off about the crowd in the airport and that was enough to make him look around.

Two men approached wearing long black coats. They did not appear to be moving toward him, but they were certainly together, and were clearly amateurs, at least to Fairbanks' perspective. He hung up just as a voice answered, female. He turned. Several more men, similarly dressed, approached on his right. He looked to the left, and there were more. He reached down for the bag, a rapid movement, but they had expected it. They knew what was inside the bag, or thought so, anyway. And, Fairbanks thought fearfully, they knew what he was. He didn't know why that thought came to him. Maybe it was just the look in their eyes.

One of them moved in and kicked the bag away. It slid and clattered over the tiled floor of the airport lobby, but the noise was lost in the roar of conversation of a thousand voices, and the carryon was noticed only by a few, who quickly disregarded it. A man behind the boy fired three shots from a pistol into his back. The gun had a silencer and no one heard or saw as he slid to the ground, not dead yet but dying. The man stepped in closer, and putting the gun to the back of Fairbanks' head, fired once more. A skein of blood splattered all over the floor. He would have slid lifeless to the ground had not the others caught him.

They were attracting attention now. One of the men slung Fairbanks' limp form over his shoulder while another casually picked up the carryon bag and, surrounded by the others, moved quickly toward an exit, outside of which, no doubt, a car waited. People were crowding around them, asking questions, simply curious at first, not suspecting, in their innocent minds, that the boy was dead, then worried, angry, and fearful. Some moved away, afraid for their own lives, while the greater mass pushed in, wanting to know for sure, but knowing in their hearts that, yes, he was dead. They had killed him. Yes, there, blood, they shouted.

The men had reached the exit. They were unmoved by the crowd pushing against them. As the man carrying the dead boy moved through the exit, the others lifted weapons from beneath their long coats and cleared a path by firing randomly into the crowd. The people scattered. Bodies fell, blood pouring, the cold tile floor now slick with bright blood. Free now, the men moved through the exit and entered the car which immediately drove away at a fast speed, leaving the chaos behind, the mortal lives they had destroyed to get at the boy who was, they deemed, an abomination.

xxxxxxxxxx

Jonathan Fairbanks came to sudden life, air rushing into his lungs. He was lying on the floor of a large van, its vibration indicating that it was moving. He strained against his bonds. For a moment, his vision swam. Then, as it cleared, he saw that he was bound in chains and three men sat about him, holding weapons, but they were not the ancient weapons an Immortal might use, but modern weapons, firearms, though one of them held a sword.

"Who are you?" he asked.

The one holding the sword spoke. "Who we are does not concern you. You will be dead soon. But first we will make you tell us of others of your kind." He leaned in and smiled fiercely. "And the advantage is that we can torture you to death, again and again, until we get what we want. And then you will die, for good." He lifted the sword. "For good."

"Why?" Fairbanks asked wearily. He was still weak, but his strength was returning fast. He strained against his bonds, but knew it was useless. Not even the strongest of them could break those chains.

"Because you are an abomination, something that should never have existed, and must not be allowed to exist any longer."

Fairbanks' eyes fell to the tattoo on the sword wielding man's wrist. His brows rose. "I've seen that symbol before. You're Watchers."

The man struck him across the jaw. Fairbanks was stunned, but felt the pain only a little. Many Immortals developed an immensely high pain threshold over time. Despite his diminutive size, Fairbanks could withstand an immensity of discomfort.

"The Watchers" repeated the man. "Yes, we were a part of them, once, until we saw the truth."

Fairbanks said defiantly, "The truth? What is that? Do you fear us? Or is it because you are envious? You envy us our Immortality, while you are doomed to die? And because you can't have what we have, then you want to make us like you…?" The man struck him again, but Fairbanks barely acknowledged it. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. "To make us mortal like you." He was struck again. The man leaned back then, and held the sword to Fairbanks' neck.

"You are mistaken."

One of the others moved over. There was a silent exchange between the two. The man with the sword sat back. The other, holding an M-16, struck Fairbanks across the face with the buttstock and the Immortal slumped back, unconscious.

xxxxxxxxxx

When Fairbanks awoke again, he was bound upon a table, naked to the waist. They were preparing to torture him for information then. He knew he would not betray his comrades. It was enough that his own life and the Quickening power he possessed would be lost in time forever. He would not betray others of his kind to the same fate through his own weakness and fear. He resolved himself for what was to come. They could torture him for an eternity and he would die many times before they took his head. He had suffered the pains of Spain's inquisitors; he could outlast what these amateurs had in store for him.

Using mental exercises learned over the centuries, from Luca Bianchi and David Ashton and others, he brought his mind and body to a state of calm. Other techniques could be used to limit the amount of pain felt by his body. But he was not yet a master of this technique. A true master could enter a trance-like state and be impervious to all pain and injury of the body. There were some Immortals who could achieve this. Fairbanks wished he'd been able to learn such a skill.

While Fairbanks waited, he wondered idly what methods of torture they would use. He looked at his bonds as he thought. They were iron, binding his wrists and ankles. He searched his memory for ways he might overcome them. In his time with David Ashton, he had learned much. Few among Immortals knew as much as David Ashton. Knowing that Fairbanks' survival might very well depend on his mastery of any number of things he knew, Ashton had sought to teach the boy everything. Such was an almost impossible task in the time they had been together. But even so, Fairbanks had mastered many things and had at least knowledge of others. Centuries or millennia would pass before he could have the same ability in these things as his mentor, but by the standards of mortals, he was skilled indeed. He also did not have to worry about damaging himself in escaping, as mortals might. None of those techniques were of use now, he thought. He had to do what he could. There was only one thing, though it was painful. He began working his right hand in the manacle that held it.

As he worked, one of the Hunters entered, carrying Fairbanks' prized wakizashi. The others, it seemed, were still preparing. Fairbanks continued to work. The Hunter laughed. He held the sword lazily in his right hand, swinging it idly for a while before leaning it against a wall, deciding it would not be needed for some time yet.

"You're wasting your time," he said. "You'll never get free of those. First we'll make you talk, then you will die."

Fairbanks stopped his work. He stared at the Hunter for a while.

"Thanks for collecting my suitcase from baggage claim," he said to the Hunter, grinning brightly.

The man scowled and said nothing. Finally deciding the others were taking too long, he picked up the sword and left. Fairbanks worked quickly now. He squeezed his hand painfully through the manacle, tearing it, crushing it. But, at last, bloodied and mangled, it came through, and he held it upon his chest, attempting to calm the pain with his mind while he waited for it to heal. He did not like the idea of doing this with his other hand, the pain was terrible. But he knew he must.

xxxxxxxxxx

He heard the approach of the Hunters. Two of them entered, holding weapons. They looked casually at Fairbanks. All his bonds at first glance appeared secure. But then one of them noticed the blood on this chest from when he had rested his hand there. One turned to the other and said, "Did you do that?"

The other shook his head no. They approached Fairbanks. As one leaned in to examine, Fairbanks lunged out, gripping the man's neck in a savage bite and holding fast. He grasped the submachine gun the Hunter held. Then, releasing him, the neck wound gushing blood, Fairbanks turned the gun expertly and shot the man in the chest. He fell away dead. The other man was fast, but could not compete with the battle-earned reflexes of an Immortal. Fairbanks shot him in the chest and the man fell.

Fairbanks heard the rapid footfalls of the other Hunter approaching. Quickly battering the two manacles binding his ankles with the butt of the weapon, they broke apart, and he was free just as the third Hunter entered. The Hunter fired his submachine gun immediately, two bullets ripping into the boy's side. Fairbanks took careful aim and pulled the trigger. The man's head virtually exploded.

Recovering his wakizashi from the second Hunter's body, he staggered from the building, then began running as a terrible fear overcame him.

xxxxxxxxxx

It was dusk. Fairbanks dragged himself quickly away from the building, taking note of his surroundings. Open fields lay to the north and west. To the south was a road, deserted at this time of night. He turned to the east, noting with satisfaction a wood. It wasn't as far away from the Hunters as he had hoped, but it would do. He staggered along, one debilitated arm dragging the wakizashi, knowing that he was damaging the blade, but too weak to care. The other arm, still clutching the purloined submachine gun, hugged the wound in his side.

The trees were only a few hundred meters away, but it seemed like kilometers to him. He knew he was dead, well, dying anyway. Better to do it tucked out of the way than in the open. Finally, he reached the dark shade of the forest, stumbling a few more meters into its cool green depths before dropping to the ground beneath a large pine tree. _Oh, Tannenbaum. Oh, Tannenbaum, _he thought, just before succumbing to death.

Five hours later, he awoke with a gasp, muttering again how much he hated the pain of rebirth. It took him several minutes to remember where he was and what had happened. At first, he had just thought it a bad dream, but the fact that he was in a wood in God-knows-where, barefoot, and wearing only his blue jeans only emphasized that it wasn't. He shivered as the cold gripped him. He would give anything to have his shirt back. He absolutely hated being cold.

A snap of twigs to his left brought him out of his reverie and he sat up, senses alert. Another snap and he knew it wasn't just a settling of the land. He stood, sword at his side. The brilliance of the flashlight caught him off-guard and he startled, his arm coming up to shade his eyes.

"Put the gun and sword down," a male voice, heavily accented, told him. It was backed up by the sound of a weapon's safety being released.

Fairbanks cursed himself, chastising that he should have wandered deeper into the trees before dying. _Stupid idea,_ he thought, as if he had any control of when death took over.

He debated momentarily whether or not he should put up a struggle, but decided against it. He would only be shot and die again, no doubt, then who knows where he would wake up - or if. Perhaps they would just take his head before he resurrected. Alive, at least, he stood half a chance.

Swallowing slowly, Jonny lowered his weapons, allowing himself to be grabbed, his arms forced cruelly behind his back and handcuffed. Then he was pushed along in the darkness, tripping and falling over debris, banging into trees that he couldn't see, all the while a pair of rough hands continually landed in the small of his back and pushed him further.

Once back inside the building, he was able to assess his captors. The pusher was a small man with a deeply receding hairline and a severe overbite. The other, the one with the gun, Fairbanks presumed, was heavy set, his face marred with acne scars and dark circles under his eyes. He smiled cruelly at the boy.

"Thought you could escape, did you? Well, you didn't get very far. Immortal you might be, but it's been my experience that there are none of you too smart. Not much of a loss to society, if you ask me."

"I don't believe I did," Fairbanks shot back, earning a crack across the jaw for his comments.

The two men dragged him along a brightly lit corridor, taking the second door from the end. They pushed him roughly into a cell-like room. Fairbanks stumbled and sprawled across the floor, hands unable to break his fall. His head smacked soundly against the stone block wall. The door behind him shut loudly, the laughter of the two men reverberating down the hall as they walked away.

Fairbanks shook his head and struggled to sit up. He surveyed his surroundings, noting that, with the exception of a rough blanket, the room was empty. His eyes fell on the camera trained on him. It was suspended from the ceiling. Tentatively, he rose to his feet, crossing the room to the farthest corner. The camera swiveled and followed him.

"Big Brother is watching," Fairbanks muttered softly. He sat and lifted his knees to his chest and brought his cuffed hands over his feet to his front. Standing again, he began an inspection of every inch of his cell, looking for any weakness or weapon. He found none. With a frustrated sigh, he settled himself down on the floor, doing his best to wrap the blanket around his still shivering body, and waited for his captors' return, wondering what fate awaited him and if he would see the dawn.

Three hours later, after he had mentally repeated the alphabet in sixteen languages, gone through the times tables from three to three thousand, and tried to recall every religion he had ever encountered, the door opened.

A tall, red haired man stepped through, a Billy club in his hand. He smacked the end of it repeatedly into his free hand, a smirk across his face.

"Well, Mr. Fairbanks, we meet at last. I'm Alan Ottenbreit and I've been asked to visit you and see if I can't elicit some information from you. Perhaps you'll be more cooperative this time around."

Fairbanks shrugged but said nothing. His eyes rested firmly on the baton and his face was grave.

"So, shall we do it the easy way, or the hard way?" the Hunter asked. "Will you tell us where the others of your kind are…or do I have to beat it out of you." With the last part of the sentence Ottenbreit swung the truncheon, connecting with Fairbanks's right shoulder.

Fairbanks heard the sickening crunch of bones breaking and felt searing pain shoot down his arm. He yelped and struggled to move out of the way.

Ottenbreit swung again, this time connecting with Fairbanks' right knee, dropping him to the floor. Then, the Hunter placed one booted foot on the Immortal's chest, restraining him to the ground.

"I'm well aware of your regenerative abilities, Mr. Fairbanks, but what you need to ask yourself is just how many days, how many weeks, how many months can you put up with the pain, always knowing that when your shoulder heals, I will simply come back and break it again." Ottenbreit swung the club, viciously smashing Fairbanks's newly healed shoulder, destroying it yet again.

Fairbanks hissed audibly, but held his tongue. His eyes stared hard into the cold, bleak depths of Ottenbreit's gaze. Physically he could survive forever like this, assuming they didn't take his head. He would sustain the injury and heal, repeating the process as many times as they inflicted damage. Mentally, too, he was strong - he had been held prisoner before in his eight hundred years, tortured in unimaginable and indescribable ways. While he had no desire to do it again, he could not, would not, give up the lives of his friends.

"Hit me with your best shot," he snarled, inwardly preparing himself for another beating.

He wasn't disappointed. This time Ottenbreit struck his ribs, crushing them and damaging the vital organs beneath. Fairbanks could feel the blood pooling in his internal cavities. He knew he would bleed to death slowly, lungs, kidneys, liver and other systems all slowly shutting down until his entire body gave in and died. Only then would his body rejuvenate and rebuild to be whole again once more.

Ottenbreit noted the stubborn set to Fairbanks' face and prepared to swing again, this time aiming for his head. He was halted in mid-swing by the door opening and a female voice.

"Mr. Ottenbreit, Mr. Wrigley has asked to see you. Immediately."

Ottenbreit hesitated for a brief moment, then removed his foot from Fairbanks' chest. He pulled his shirt straight and strode toward the door. Turning, he addressed the Immortal.

"Heal quickly, Jonathan Fairbanks. I will be back." With that, he stepped out of the cell.

Fairbanks closed his eyes and waited for the clang of the door shutting - but it didn't. Instead, he was startled by the sound of a female voice, this time very close to him.

"Oh, Jonny, I'm so sorry. I tried to get here faster, but I couldn't."

Fairbanks opened his eyes and stared into the face of Natalie Lansky. She looked back at him, concern and fear across her face.

"You have to get out of here. It won't be long before Ottenbreit figures out Wrigley didn't send for him. He'll hang up the phone and come back even angrier than before."

She slipped one hand behind his back, drawing him up to a sitting position. Placing his scabbarded wakizashi next to him, she unlocked the handcuffs, freeing his arms.

He stared at her in amazement. "You're one of them?" he blurted. Natalie Lansky was the last person he had expected to see.

After taking Heinrich Gruber's head and realizing Lansky had seen him, Fairbanks had taken her back to his home. Once there, he had told David Ashton what she had seen, not sure what he should do about it. David had explained things to Natalie and arranged to have her meet some people he knew, people who would help her understand what she had seen. Watcher people.

After that, Natalie Lansky had disappeared. Fairbanks had assumed she had been recruited by the Watcher Organization.

"I'm not a Hunter!" she replied fiercely. "I'm scheduled to attend the Academy starting in the spring. Until then, Mr. Wrigley, one of the Regional Directors, has me assigned to "other duties." They told me this was a place where they took care of the unwanted Immortals. The ones who do no good and simply spread evil and malice around the world. I believed them...until I saw them bring you in." She bit her lip. "What an idiot I am. How could I be so naïve?"

Fairbanks glanced at the camera nervously. "Let's not worry about that right now. Right now, I need to get out of here before whoever is behind that," he pointed at the camera, "sounds the alarm."

Lansky responded with a small smile. She noted his questioning expression and smiled more. The boy looked like he needed it. "Oh, they won't, the person behind the camera is a bit busy at the moment...helping an Immortal escape." She ruffled his hair. He grinned shyly at her. She was stunned at how beautiful he was when he did that. It was time to go.

It took them almost half an hour to make their way out of the building, hiding in closets and offices as they went. It helped that Fairbanks' disappearance had yet to be noticed. Obviously, Mr. Wrigley and Mr. Ottenbreit had found something to discuss after all. It didn't help that he finally succumbed to his injuries in one disused office. Their saving grace was that he didn't take long to revive. Lansky was sitting beside him, holding his hand. She gasped almost as loudly as he did when he roused.

Eventually, they reached the final barrier, a manned security door that stood between them and freedom.

"Stay here, when you see he's distracted, move through the door. Don't look back, just keep going. My car is a red VW bug, the new kind. Take it and go." She handed him the keys. "You do know how to drive, don't you?"

Fairbanks nodded. "Yeah, I do. But what about you? I can't leave you here. They'll know you had something to do with it."

Lansky shook her head. "I'll try to get out with you, but don't wait for me. Just go. Tell the rest of your kind. And show them who to be wary of." She pressed a videocassette into his hands. Fairbanks had seen her pick it up from one of the offices they had hidden in, wondering what it contained.

Without waiting for his response, Lansky stepped into the hall. She paused momentarily, unbuttoning first one button on her blouse, then, after a thought, another. She wiggled her already short skirt up a few more inches and set off down the hallway.

"Well, Sam," she purred to the man at the guard station. "I didn't realize you were working today, too. I would have saved my coffee break." She hopped up on the counter in front of the man who was now giving her a lascivious grin, effectively blocking his view of the door. One hand moved behind herself, pressing the red button that allowed free access to and from the building.

"Well, N-N-N-Natalie. I didn't r-r-realize you were working e-e-e-either," the man managed to stutter, his eyes never leaving the woman's overly exposed chest.

Fairbanks saw his opportunity and took it. On his hands and knees, he hurriedly crawled to the door, pushing it open only as much as he needed to slide through. Once beyond the man's eyesight, he jumped to his feet and broke into a run.

The security guard swept Lansky from his desk, just catching Fairbanks's image on an outside security camera. Immediately he gave the alarm that the Immortal had been seen.

Slamming through the final door, Fairbanks was outside. He paused only briefly to get his bearings, noting a red VW bug parked in the far side of the lot. Again, he broke into a run, already hearing the pandemonium behind him.

An alarm blared behind him. His escape had been noted. Frantically searching the bundle of keys Lansky had given him, he finally selected the right one, thrust it into the lock and turned. The lock popped and he dove inside, just as a bullet whizzed by his head. Another followed, shattering the passenger window of the car.

Fairbanks slammed the door shut and put the key into the ignition, all the while keeping his head down. The engine started and he slammed the car into reverse, his head popping up to see where he was going. He sped toward a group of men and women scattered across the road, all armed with guns, every one pointed at him.

_"Queynten,"_ (Cunts,) he muttered, the Middle English expletive slipping from his lips easily.

Fairbanks slammed his foot to the floor and ducked. The Hunters continued to fire at the car until the last possible second, then they dove out of its way. The Bug sped by, crashing through the parking barrier and out onto the access road.

Fairbanks sat up, staring in the rearview mirror at the Hunters behind him. He saw Natalie Lansky in the milieu, being shoved roughly to her knees by Alan Ottenbreit. He gasped audibly as he watched her head explode.


	14. Dimmed Amongst the Lilies

Chapter 13  
Dimmed Amongst the Lilies

"Shrouded by the night  
and by the secret stair I quickly fled  
The veil concealed my eyes  
while all within lay quiet as the dead."

"The Dark Night Of The Soul" - Loreena McKennitt

18 September 1999  
Isle of Skye, Scotland

Even though it was only mid-September, Siobhan O'Banian could already smell autumn in the air. It was in the cool wind that blew from the north and the greenery that was beginning to hint at fall color. She glanced out the side window of the Land Rover, looking across the Sound of Rasaay to the Isle itself that no matter what the weather, was shrouded in mist.

It was the third Saturday of the month, a day reserved for her monthly pilgrimage into Portree to stock up on food and other necessities. She had also picked up her mail, all six pieces of it, and paid a few bills. Now, late in the afternoon, she was back on the single lane road that looped the coastline of Trotternish, the most northern part of Skye.

O'Banian drove on, listening to the Gaelic CD she had playing, sometimes joining in, but more often simply listening, letting the language of her childhood flow over her. They spoke Gaelic on Skye, or Eilean a Cheo as it was known in that language, but it was different. She had had to learn to adapt in the ten years she had lived here. Still, it was good once in a while to hear it the way she had originally learned it.

She passed the "Old Man of Storr" and Kilt Rock, meeting only one other vehicle in her journey home. Her mind drifted while she drove, mulling over the short letter she had received.

Siobhan,

You need to know. A renegade band of Watchers are hunting Immortals. They play by no rules, shooting first and taking heads - even on holy ground. None of you are safe. Be aware.

Patrick

It had been two years since she had heard from him, longer since they had seen each other. She had been in Paris several times, even stood outside the church once, but couldn't quite bring herself to go inside. It was better this way, she told herself. And sometimes she actually believed it.

_Watchers? Hunting Immortals?_ She shook her head at the thought, but her expression was grave.

O'Banian had first become aware of the existence of Watchers five years ago. She had marked a face in a crowd at a busy train station in Berlin. When she had seen the same face in the airport in Paris, she thought it simple coincidence. He could easily have been another weary traveller who had taken the train and was now flying somewhere. When she saw the same man in Glasgow, she began to get suspicious. Confirmation came when she caught his reflection in a shop window at Fort William. He wasn't Immortal, that much she knew for sure.

At first, she thought the IRA was onto her. There had been a price on her head since her departure in early 1989. She had sat at home, loaded gun across her knees, waiting for them to come bursting through the door.

They hadn't.

Three weeks passed, and she had almost convinced herself that she had made it all up, gotten confused and only seen someone similar, when she noticed him again, this time in Portree. O'Banian had hidden behind a corner, reaching out and grabbing the man by the collar and dragging him into the backstreet. He had, at first, been reluctant to talk, but a .357 Magnum muzzle against his temple had quickly erased his reluctance and he had stutteringly told her about Watchers.

She hadn't believed him and pointedly told him so in rather descriptive terms that included some colorful discussion as to his parentage, then he had shown her his notebook and let her listen to the voicetape commentary he had made of her comings and goings. It slowly dawned on her that he was telling her the truth.

She had, of course, let him go. Killing him was of no use and besides, she had promised herself that she would never kill anyone again…not unless she had to.

She hadn't seen that particular Watcher again, but she had been aware of new ones. Some stayed for a few weeks, others a few months. She would slowly become aware of a familiar face wherever she went. It actually became a game - letting them think she didn't know they were there, then surprising them. Having a pizza delivered to their car, leaving a thermos of hot coffee for them, turning around and taking _their_ picture. It made her laugh to see the stunned expressions on their faces when they realized they had been caught. The last one was a woman. She had only lasted three weeks before she disappeared. O'Banian hadn't even had time to let on that she knew about her.

Now there didn't appear to be anyone - perhaps the note was an indication why. Perhaps the Watchers were meeting somewhere, plotting the complete demise of the Immortal race. O'Banian shuddered at the thought.

She finally turned off the main road and onto what was no more than a cart track across the rough, heather-covered terrain. The twelfth century renovated church she called home was two miles inland. It sat in a natural basin, surrounded on all but the approaching side by the climbing cliffs that gradually rose into the Quiraing.

When O'Banian had first seen the church, ten years ago, it had been a gutted stone building with half a roof and no windows. She had spent a small fortune just to make it habitable, replacing the roof, the windows and the floor, adding indoor plumbing. A generator supplied a limited amount of electricity, and heat in the winter came from a huge stone fireplace set along the sidewall in what used to be the right transept.

She parked to the side of the church and hurried to open the huge oak front door. Silence greeted her. She thought again of getting a dog or a cat - someone that would be pleased to see her when she returned. But that would mean getting attached to something, and getting attached to anything, be it animal or human, was never a good idea. Experience had taught her that much.

With the exception of a small bathroom, the inside of the church itself was still one large room. The door opened into a low ceilinged entryway above which was the small loft that used to be for a choir, but now served as the bedroom. The rest of the church was open to the beamed roof.

O'Banian quickly hauled in the groceries, storing items in the fridge, freezer or pantry as needed. Then she wandered over and lit the fire. Once the sun went down, the place would be cold. She hung her fleece-lined leather jacket on the hook by the door and returned to the kitchen.

Three hours later, it was dark. The remnants of a meal sat cold and congealed on a plate on the scrubbed oak table. An almost empty wine bottle stood beside a low burning candle. Strains of Davy Spillane played on the small stereo.

O'Banian herself was curled up in a large armchair placed on an angle to the left of the fireplace. She was reading, book in one hand, wineglass in the other, deeply engrossed in the latest Michael Slade offering. She finished a chapter, then set the book down and drained her wine glass.

Over by the table, she emptied the dregs of the wine bottle into her glass. She leaned and blew out the candle, then turned back toward the chair. One minute the room had been bathed in a warm glow from two lamps and the roaring fireplace, the next, only the light of the fireplace remained.

O'Banian halted, a sixth sense kicking in and telling her something was not right. Mentally she counted off the seconds before the emergency generator kicked in. She absently brushed aside a strand of long, dark red hair, waiting.

"Eight."

"Nine."

"Ten."

"Eleven."

"Twelve."

Every time the power had failed before, the generator had kicked in by ten - but not now.

O'Banian willed her breathing to stay low and even, her eyes scanning each of the windows in turn. Outside it was pitch black, no lights, no torches, no headlights. No prickling sensation crawled up her spine. If someone was out there, they weren't Immortal. She remembered the letter from Patrick and her heart skipped a beat.

Hunters.

Could they be here for her?

Cautiously, all senses alert, she crossed to the chair, picking up the fifteenth century Templar sword that lay in its scabbard under the armchair. A heavy thud on the roof followed by three more brought her head up. She waited, unsheathed sword in hand, wondering what the noise signified.

It began as a low hum, building in sound and tempo. O'Banian turned in a circle, eyes still scanning the ceiling. Her olfactory sense gave her the first clue.

Smoke.

The roof was on fire. It was made of thatch and wouldn't last long.

Her first action was to pick up her cell phone, quickly punching in numbers for the closest fire station in Uig. It would take them a while to get there, but perhaps they could salvage something of her home.

A friendly female voice informed her that communications were temporarily unavailable and invited her to try her call later.

"There won't be much bloody point later," she hissed, throwing the phone on the table.

The smoke was heavier now; starting to sting her eyes and clog her throat. The hum had become a roar and O'Banian could see flames eating through the wooden beams, licking away at the supports.

_It's going to come down. I have to get out of here,_ she thought. Her eyes scanned the room, agonising over what to save and what to leave. She grabbed the oversized carryall that sat by the door.

Years of late night phone calls requesting her to be halfway around the world in a few short hours had taught O'Banian to be in a constant state of readiness to leave. The bag already contained two complete changes of clothes, tooth and hairbrushes, her passport, a pair of 4x40 binoculars, and her camera. It also contained items most people did not carry in their travel gear - mineral oil, a whetstone, and paste wax.

She grabbed her Walkman and a few precious CDs, her address book, and her wallet, stuffing them all into the tote. She hesitated a second, then returned to the bookcase, retracting a dog-eared book. _An Anthology of Irish Poets_ by Devlin Aucoin, given to her by her teacher, Anastacia Delmar, disappeared into the bag, too. The last thing to go in was a .357 Magnum revolver and, through its carrying handles, a semi-automatic carbine, a Mini-14.

The room was filled with smoke by this time and O'Banian coughed continuously. She could hear the cracking and popping of the beams overhead. A loud whoosh filled the air and a beam dropped, crashing down onto the shelves that had held the stereo and books. A shower of sparks followed, dropping onto the furniture and rugs.

O'Banian put one hand over her head, frantically brushing away the embers that had landed in her hair. She slung the carryall over her shoulder, grabbed her jacket from the peg and stuffed her feet into her hiking boots. Then, crouching low, rescabbarded sword in hand, she hurried to the door.

Hand on the doorknob, she hesitated. First rule of being under attack - never go out the front door. She swore softly in Gaelic at her near blunder. She didn't doubt that whoever had set her house on fire was waiting on the other side of that door, guns ready. Well, she wasn't about to make it that easy for them.

She scrambled across the hardwood floor, on her belly now, trying to find pockets of rapidly disappearing oxygen. The room was falling around her, fragments of beams, a rainstorm of cinders and ash, all dropping onto her.

A large piece of inflamed roof fell, catching her across her shoulder and searing her clothing to her skin. O'Banian hissed, closing her eyes at the pain that ripped through her body.

_I will heal,_ she told herself. _'Twill all be gone by tomorrow._ She muttered a Gaelic prayer that she would still be alive tomorrow.

In the darkness, she felt for the rug that had been laid across the floor. It had been a beautiful wool tapestry, something she had picked up on one of her trips to the mainland. Now it was a burning, smouldering mass. O'Banian pushed the rug aside, her fingers scrabbling frantically across the planks of the wood floor. Finally she found it.

A small handle, fitted perfectly into the wooden floor so that, unless one knew where to look, it would never be found.

O'Banian took a deep breath and stood, her eyes streaming tears and her throat aching. With all of her remaining strength, she yanked the handle, the muscles in her arms and her burnt shoulder screaming in protest.

At last, the trapdoor gave way. O'Banian tossed her bag, her jacket and the sword down into the hole. She looked around her, coughing. The house was an inferno. Thick smoke made it difficult to see and the heat was becoming unbearable. O'Banian dropped to her knees and then dropped further into the hole in the floor, pulling the cover down behind her. As she did so, she wondered if this would be her saviour, or her tomb.

It wasn't until two hours later that she finally gulped clean, fresh air. The crypt under the church had been clammy and dusty, but nothing had prepared her for the dank, putrid passageway along which she had had to crawl on her belly.

One of the workmen who had helped with the renovations had shown her the passageway. He told her he thought it was used at one point for smuggling and suspected that the other end came out somewhere along the cliffs at Staffin Bay, which made it all the more surprising for O'Banian when she emerged. She was nowhere near the sea. Instead, she was fully the other way, the passage had headed straight north, not east to the coast.

She was barely one and a half kilometers from her house. She hauled herself out of the tunnel after tossing her things up first. It was a cleverly concealed entranceway, set just to the side of a large rock and surrounded by gorse and rhododendron bushes.

O'Banian turned, her eyes training on the glowing building in the distance. It lit up the night sky, enough for her to see the three vehicles in addition to her own that were parked there. She counted eight bodies, all appearing to be men, in various places around the church.

The wind rippled cool down the Quiraing and she shivered, pulling the jacket tighter around her. It was going to be a cold night and she was far from anywhere. She couldn't walk the hills; she wouldn't get far before she fell down a crag or got caught in a sinkhole. The farmers in this area lost dozens of sheep every year to the terrain. Ordinarily, the safest place to walk would have been the road, but not with Hunters driving on them. She would have to wait until they left, or until dawn, whichever came first.

With a sigh of resolution, Siobhan O'Banian settled herself against the rock and watched her home burn.

xxxxxxxxxx

18 September 1999  
Swansea, Wales

Robyn Radway yawned and pushed her computer keyboard away. Her eyes were crossing on her and there was no way she could continue writing this paper any longer. She needed a break. Maybe a nap, too.

The young brunette shook her head. She couldn't sleep right now. Her head was too much of a tornado at the moment, spinning too fast with various facts about the history of the Germanic tribes and their conflicts with the Roman armies. She'd have to let her brain relax for a while before there would be any hope of her body following suit.

Radway looked at the small television in the corner of her apartment. That would do nicely. A little time vegetating in front of the tube would do the trick quite well. Who cared what was on right now? Just turn the thing on and set the circuits to receive for an hour or so. That would work. Slumping into her secondhand recliner, she hit the power button on her remote control to rejuvenate the box.

There was a news program currently running. Radway allowed herself a slight eye roll but did not change the channel. She had told herself she would stick with whatever was on when she sat down and, damn it, that's what she was going to do. She set the remote on the small table by her chair, kicked up the footrest, and looked in the direction of the screen with unfocused eyes.

As usual with television news, the mantra was "if it bleeds, it leads." The pretty blonde anchorwoman gave an update on the story of Tony Martin, Norfolk farmer who had shot dead a sixteen-year-old burglar on the twentieth of August. He was also charged with wounding a twenty-nine-year-old man who was also present at the time of the burglary. The anchorwoman continued with stories about the continued gruesome murders by decapitation that were spreading across Europe.

"Ugh," moaned Radway. "Just let it go for a while. Give us something else, for once."

"And now, we go to a story from the United States," said the anchorwoman, as if hearing Radway's words, "which just took place two hours ago. At least ten armed men attacked a young boy at the Seattle-Tacoma International Airport early in the morning and shot him multiple times at close range. Witnesses say they then seized the boy's lifeless body and carried it away to a waiting van. When people in the crowd tried to intervene, the gunmen then turned their weapons on the crowd before making their escape. Three people are confirmed dead and another eight wounded, according to reports from the Seattle police department. We have this video from security cameras at the airport. We would like to warn viewers that the following scenes are of a graphic nature and may be shocking to some."

"Well," muttered Radway as she took in the video of the airport massacre, "that's certainly a bit different. You don't hear of that happening at Heathrow."

She watched in stunned silence as the teenager made a call from the phone booth. Seeming to sense the approach of the men behind him, he hung up and turned. He tried to grab his bag and run, but they drew their weapons and fired at him before he could get away. The teen crumpled to his knees. Radway gasped as she saw the shot to the back of the boy's head explode out of the front. The boy dropped in a heap to the floor.

The attackers kicked the child's bag away from the body as if they expected him to still reach into it and extract a weapon. The men approaching from the front retrieved it. Radway continued to sit, her footrest now lowered and her body leaning toward the screen, as the men picked up the lifeless body and made their way to the exit. She winced as the silent video displayed the men firing into the crowd and several bodies dropped. In her mind, she could hear the screams of the wounded people. The dark-clothed men then departed through the front door with the blood-soaked teen's body and disappeared from sight.

Radway turned off the television. Taking a deep breath, she picked up her phone and dialed. She was fully awake now. She needed to talk to someone. This may be an event from thousands of kilometers away, but the horror of it required an outlet of some kind. Her foot tapped impatiently as she waited through the series of rings.

"Hello?"

"Hi, Nicola? It's Robyn. Have you seen the news from America? At the airport in Washington? Can we get together for a drink and talk about it?"

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19 September 1999  
Isle of Skye, Scotland

It was the wetness that brought her back to reality. A cold wetness that dripped steadily onto her face.

O'Banian opened her eyes to heavy mist and rain. She had tried to stay awake, but finally exhaustion had taken over and she had fallen into a troubled sleep. She sat up, eyes scanning the horizon. A horizon that was only ten feet in front of her. After that there was only misty greyness.

She could smell the smoke, but she couldn't see the church, the fog obscuring it completely.

_Well, if I can't see them, at least the bastards can't see me,_ she mused. Her stomach rumbled in hunger and she wished she had grabbed something from the cupboard to bring with her.

She sat all day in the fog, waiting for it to lift. It didn't. O'Banian began to get nervous when darkness once again descended. The mists up here could last for days, weeks even. Cold and starvation couldn't kill her, not completely, but it could make life a living hell. The damp cold penetrated her to the bone and she shivered uncontrollably.

xxxxxxxxxx

O'Banian revived with a gasp, sitting straight up, breath deep and shuddery. She'd tried to stay awake, stay alive, but somewhere around four thirty, hypothermia had set in and she had fallen asleep. Soon after, her heartbeat slowed until it stopped completely. She didn't resuscitate until the sun was high and warmed her body.

The day was clear, the mist of yesterday forgotten. Using her binoculars, her first glance at the burned out ruin that had once been her home told her the Hunters had left. Then her eye caught a slight movement along the church's southwest corner. Someone was still there, waiting for her to return.

"Yer about to be disappointed, ye bastard," she croaked. She forced her body to move, grabbing the carryall and her sword. Quickly she skirted round, keeping low to the ground and taking cover behind hedgerows and rocks where she could. Finally, she was level with the south wall of the church. There wasn't one of them but two, sitting on the ground, their backs against the cool stone of the church wall.

O'Banian narrowed her eyes and scanned the terrain. It would be tricky, but if she moved slowly and kept low she would be fine. A large outcrop of rock sat straight across from the two men. It would make a perfect shelter. She dropped her sword and her carryall, removing only what she would need. Then she moved.

An hour later, she was safely tucked in along the top of a low cliff. She was still two hundred or so meters away, but she looked down on them, and that would help. O'Banian scrabbled along the top of the cliff, staying as low to the ground as she could. She reached the lip of the precipice, bringing the carbine up from her side and resting it on the rock. She narrowed one eye, taking aim and carefully releasing the safety. She took three deep breaths, steadying her heartbeat. Her finger slowly squeezed the trigger.

The man on the right went first, the bullet hitting him square between the eyes. His partner started in horror, then jumped to his feet and turned, eyes frantically scanning the rock formation in front of him. O'Banian took careful aim again and fired.

The first shot caught him in the shoulder, the second in the leg. The man dropped like a rock, his hand covering his knee, his mouth open in high-pitched scream that was half pain, half fear.

O'Banian rolled to her back, the Mini-14 crossways across her body. Her heart thundered in her chest and her mind raced. She had thought never to do this again. Not like this. As much as it sickened her to acknowledge it - she had missed it.

She pulled herself up, warily coming down from the cliff; her eyes firmly set on the man writhing in pain on the grass beside the church. She hadn't missed with either shot. She had intended to kill one, severely injure the other. She wanted to find out who had sent them.

.357 Magnum in hand, she cautiously walked up to the man. Sweat beaded his forehead and his breath was raspy and ragged. He stared up at her, trying not to cringe.

O'Banian gave him a swift kick in the injured knee, smiling coldly at his cry of pain. She kicked him again, this time in the belly, watching him curl up like a child, groaning.

"Tough day at the office?" she spat. The toe of her hiking boot made contact with his neck, forcing his body straight, his head back onto the grass. Then she placed one foot on his chest, leaning her weight on it and balancing the gun on her knee, loosely pointed at his head.

"What's yer name?" she asked casually.

The man stared up at her, but made no answer.

O'Banian sighed and studied the horizon for a brief moment, then turned her attention back to the Hunter. "Unless you've got a damn good union, you don't get extra pay fer being dead. And if yer thinking that you might be like me," she smiled. "Let me assure you, you aren't. Fer you, dead is most definitely dead." Her eye caught a slight movement of the man's left hand. A brief second later the hand was lying useless by his side and he was sobbing in agony. The knife he'd try to pull from a pocket lay nearby.

O'Banian pressed her foot firmly down on his chest, fixing the gun muzzle inches from the man's face. "I believe I asked you a fucking question, and if you don't want to find your brains sprayed across the beautiful landscape of Skye, I suggest you answer it.

"Dixon," he gasped. "Andrew Dixon."

O'Banian smiled coldly. "Well, Andrew Dixon, I want to know who sent you? Who's the bastard behind this?"

"I don't know. I just know we got orders - to take your head." He stared up at her pleadingly. "Please, I have a wife. I have a child."

O'Banian scowled, weighing up the situation. "A wife and child, huh? That's…nice. And I suppose you have a nice house, too?"

Dixon nodded mutely.

The Immortal sighed and shook her head. "I used to have a nice house…'til you fucking burnt it to the ground!" She pulled back the hammer on the gun. Dixon began to whimper.

"I have a wife. A little boy. He's three mo…"

The last word of Andrew Dixon's mortal life died on his lips, the bullet neatly placed between his two blue eyes.

"How very nice for you, Andrew."

O'Banian stepped back, eyes flat and cold. Her hands swept the Hunter's still warm body, finally finding the keys to the car in his pants pocket. She took his wallet and that of the other man, whose credit cards identified him as Roy Hardley.

She retrieved her bag and her sword from the hill. Then, without a backward glance, she let herself into Hardley's car and drove off.

xxxxxxxxxx

22 Sep 1999  
Armagh, Ireland

_"Hé, Razumov. Neem deze nieuwe batterij voor een schiethamer mee naar Nils op het vijfde niveau, wil je?"_ (Hey, Razumov. Take this new battery for a nail gun up to Nils on the fifth level, would you?) MacNaughton grinned at Razumov as the man formulated a response to his question. There was no preset answer. It was purely contextual, based on the conversation they were having.

_"Wacht," _(Wait,) Razumov said._ "Deze batterij is voor een Paslode. Nils gebruikt een Hitachi." _(Wait. This battery is for a Paslode. Nils is using a Hitachi.)

MacNaughton's grin blossomed into a full-blown smile as he switched back to English. "Very good. You remembered all of the details from earlier and incorporated them correctly into your reply. Excellent."

Razumov chuckled and scratched his head nervously. "I thought there might be a little trap in your question. That's why I thought about it for a second. It seemed so obvious after some contemplation." Razumov returned MacNaughton's smile. "I am so grateful for the conversational help you have given me over these last two weeks. It has been most beneficial."

MacNaughton laughed. "My pleasure. And I am amazed at the progress you have made in the language in such a short time. You are already speaking it incredibly well. At this rate, you'll be talking like a native in just a few more weeks."

With another snort of laughter, Razumov said, "I've always had a skill with languages when I actually apply myself to them. I just need the right motivation for it. The desire to eat can be a strong motivation."

MacNaughton threw his head back, letting his own laugh flow unabated. "That it can," he replied as his phone started to ring. "You are quite correct." He reached for the jinggling phone.

"Hello?" he said. He listened briefly. "Siobhan? What's happened?" He frowned.

With a glance at Razumov, he stood. "Yes, Marton is still here, as well. He's safe." Another pause. "Of course, we can. Just say where." He waited again. "That won't be a problem. I have a place in Glencoe. Would that work? Okay, here's the address."

Razumov gave the Scotsman an inquiring look as he rattled off an address into the handset. He remained silent, though, waiting.

"We'll be there in two days," said MacNaughton. "I'll call on some others who are trustworthy, if that's okay. Good. Who else have you called?" More waiting. "That's good. Stay safe, Siobhan. Goodbye." He hung up.

"What happened?" asked Razumov, his curiosity being vented before his host could even sit again.

MacNaughton ran a hand through his dark hair and sat on the couch with a sigh. He immediately stood again and walked over to the small bar across the room.

"Drink?" he inquired. "I'm having bourbon. Neat. A triple."

"Sure. Same, please."

MacNaughton poured the beverages into crystal tumblers and brought them back. Handing one to the Russian, he sat again. He took a long pull on his own liquor and let it slide down his throat before replying to his guest's original question.

"Some mortals attacked Siobhan at her home on Skye a few days ago. They had guns and set fire to her converted church. They then waited for her to come running out. She went out a different way and came up behind them. She killed two of them and got information on who sent them. She says they are from a group that seeks to destroy all Immortals. She wants to meet with some dependable Immortals and discuss her plans to counter them. She's called several others besides me and I'm going to call a few myself. I suggested we meet at my home in Glencoe. She agreed and we'll meet there in two days."

"My God," said Razumov. "It's just like what happened to me in Canada." He gulped his bourbon and sighed. A shiver ran through him.

"It looks that way," agreed MacNaughton. "Someone is trying to kill us all. If I know Siobhan, she wants to kill some of them first."

xxxxxxxxxx

MacNaughton spent the next two hours compiling and editing a list of Immortals he knew whom he thought would be worthwhile additions to O'Banian's likely cause. He started with a list of nineteen but, for one reason or another, mostly the fact that many of them he suspected would not be able to sync with O'Banian's personality, he crossed off eleven of them. He finally had eight names remaining: Darmond Bilsby, Karl Eichmann, Dasmius Mikal, Ruth Okin, Julia Palmer, Hewett Penn, Aaron Pittmann, and Sergei Tuppanokovich. He picked up his address book and thumbed through it, wondering how many of his phone numbers were still accurate.

Darmond Bilsby sounded bored when he answered the phone. He probably was. MacNaughton carried on a conversation with him for several minutes before coming to his point. Bilsby was intrigued particularly since he made no effort to keep up with current events. MacNaughton apologized when the man pressed for more details about what O'Banian's intent would be, saying he did not know. Bilsby readily agreed to meet with the other Immortals in Glencoe nonetheless.

Eichmann's was a good number, as well. He picked up on the third ring. The German seemed open to MacNaughton's proposal, even with the scant details provided to him, and said he would be available in a few days, but could not make the meeting on the twenty-fourth. MacNaughton promised to keep him updated.

Mikal agreed to come right away and MacNaughton moved on to Ruth Okin. He was surprised to learn she was already aware of the problem. She was in Paris with another Immortal named Omeir Faaris. She agreed to come anyway. MacNaughton asked if her friend would accompany her. He said he was interested, but would await details from Okin. MacNaughton was fine with that. He continued with his list.

Julia Palmer did not answer any of her phone numbers. MacNaughton was concerned over this and wondered if this meant the mortals in question had already gotten to her. He made a note to check the news reports for mention of any of her current aliases and moved on. He left a message for Hewett Penn and called Aaron Pittmann next. It did not take much convincing to elicit a promise of attendance from the man. MacNaughton gave him the address, put a check by his name, and hung up.

His phone rang immediately. It was Penn. MacNaughton gave him a précis of the reason for his call. Penn thought about it only briefly before agreeing to come to the meeting. MacNaughton thanked him. He then dialed Sergei Tuppanokovich. The Russian answered after four rings, his deep voice resounding over the line. MacNaughton spoke cheerfully but professionally to him, giving him all the necessary details. Tuppanokovich grunted in response, thinking. After ten seconds of silence, he asked, like Eichmann, for MacNaughton to keep him informed of developments. He had to wrap up a few responsibilities at home before he travelled west to assist his Scottish friend. MacNaughton promised he would do so.

Hanging up, MacNaughton tried all of the numbers for Julia Palmer one more time. He got the same result as before. No answer. He set the phone down and went to his computer. A quick search of recent news quickly brought up the name Alexa Torrence, one of her preferred aliases. Her headless body had been found in Auchavan, England nine days ago. MacNaughton spat a curse and crossed her name from the list.

xxxxxxxxxxx

22 September 1999  
Paris, France

David Ashton sat at his laptop computer, his fingers flying over its keyboard. The _To_ field of the message contained the personal email addresses of fourteen Immortals he believed would be assets in the coming campaign against the Hunters. He checked each name again, just to be sure. Turan Abjer, Dominic Ackart, Hotsuma Bentenrai, Jonas Cartell, Eric Doyle, Darren Dublin, Jennifer Ellis, Jacob Forrester, Wallace Frazier, Winter Kjellson, Joseph Madsen, Chris Pellier, James Pellier, and Dalla Selbjorgsdottir.

The Minoan nodded to himself. Each of these men and women were proven to be resourceful and skilled in the abilities that would be needed in the effort to come. The _Copy Furnished_ line contained the addresses of Lawrence Channing, Paderau Griffin, Maximillian Honnecker, Jasper Marion, Viktor Petrov, Payton Swift, and Charles Ulrich.

Ashton counted the names. Twenty-one in total, twenty-two counting himself. It was hardly enough to mount a counteroffensive against a faceless enemy of unknown size and scope. He sighed. It would have to do as a start, at least. He knew a few others he could contact, mortals, who could assist, as well. He did not like the idea of risking mortal lives. They were much more fragile than Immortals. It might come to that, though. He began to write.

All,

As some of you may already be aware, a serious threat to the continued existence of Immortals has arisen in Europe and also, to a more limited extent, in North America. This threat stems from a shadow organization known as the Watchers - whose mission is to track and record the lives of Immortals - and is in the form of a rogue element of that organization, a splinter cell known as Hunters. These Hunters, being Watchers themselves and having full knowledge of our identities, are seeking us out, ambushing us wherever they find us - even on holy ground - and taking our heads. Part of their standard practice is to always take our heads in a manner so that other Immortals are not present and the Quickenings are lost forever.

Thus far, in the past five weeks, based on the news reports available, we have been able to ascertain that at least one hundred Immortals have been killed in the manner in Europe alone. As you can imagine, this constitutes a serious peril for us and demands immediate action. I write to you today to request your personal presence to discuss plans for that action.

I will be hosting this meeting in conference room two on the third of October at the Winchester Royal Hotel. There are rooms for all of you already reserved. I have paid all costs of the rooms and meals in advance for you, as well. You need only to get here. The reservation is under the name McEntyre. The address is Saint Peter Street, Winchester SO23 8BS, UK. The number to RSVP your reservation is +44 330 107 2242.

There are extra rooms available, if needed. If you know other trustworthy individuals who may be beneficial in the effort, please pass this message on to them. For any responses for more information, please hit "reply all" so that all may benefit from those replies.

Thank you in advance,

David Ashton

It was a short message, but full of critical intent. Ashton reviewed it once to make sure he had not missed any important point. He noticed nothing out of sorts. As he hit _Send_ on the email, he wondered how many of these friends of his would show up to help and, of those, how many of them would still be alive when it was all over.

.


	15. I Don't Feel Safe Anymore

Chapter 14  
I Don't Feel Safe Anymore

"I always feel like somebody's watching me  
And I have no privacy  
I always feel like somebody's watching me  
Tell me is it just a dream?"

"Somebody's Watching Me" - Kennedy William Gordy (Rockwell)

24 September 1999  
Glencoe, Scotland

Siobhan O'Banian had never considered herself to be a leader. In her previous life, her time with the Irish Republican Army, she had merely been one of the many soldiers following one of the many charismatic officers in its ranks, doing as she was told and rarely straying outside her lane. Now, however, she felt the pull to step outside of that comfort zone. Today, she had to move to the front and take charge. She stood in front of the small gathering of Immortals and cleared her throat, fighting off the nervousness she felt in her voice. She did her best to keep her accent suppressed as she spoke, but it still crept in at times.

"Hello, everyone, and thank you for comin'. I don't know how much each of ya knows about what has been goin' on around here lately so I'll tell you what happened ta me. Some of you probably had the same. Some not.

I'll start by tellin' ya a little about myself. My name is Siobhan O'Banian. I was born in 1945 in Belfast, Northern Ireland. I became immortal after a faulty bomb went off too early in Guildford, England in 1974. I was twenty-nine at the time. Yes, before ya ask me, I was involved with the Ra at the time, but not anymore. Since then, I have been a freelance photojournalist.

"I had a home on the Isle of Skye in an old abandoned church until a few days ago. It was burned down by a group of people who call themselves Watchers. They said they were under orders to attack me an' take my head. I killed two of them and escaped. I then called James," she pointed out James MacNaughton as she spoke, "and some of the others of you here and arranged this meeting to talk about what to do about them.

"Before I say what I want to do, I see a lot o' strangers here. At least, strangers ta me. Would everyone please introduce themselves and give us a quick rundown of their qualifications?"

With that request, the woman pushed her red hair out of her face and sat down, glad to have finished speaking for the moment. She looked at the Immortal closest to her, Michael DeLioncourt. The Frenchman nodded and stood.

"I am Michael De Lioncourt," he began, fingering the twenty-seven bead Buddhist rosary on his left wrist as he spoke. "I was born in 1492 in Paris and met my first death in Marseille in battle in 1515. I was twenty-three. Over the years, I have been a soldier, monk, musician, spy, actor, even a baker and a winemaker. These days, I have been working as a private investigator.

"I was living in the United States and had a job that brought me to Glasgow. While there, I had a run-in with some of these Watchers when they conducted a hit on the pub where I was tailing a subject. At first, I thought they were trying to assassinate him but very quickly learned they were after me, instead. I barely escaped, badly hurt, and moved south. I linked up with some other Immortals whose friends had been killed by Watchers and stayed with them for a while. I would have brought them with me today but they were concerned about security and chose to stay where they were. I will report to them when this is concluded and they will decide whether to join us or not later on."

De Lioncourt sat. O'Banian turned her gaze to the next person in line. She did not know this green-eyed man. He was a friend of MacNaughton's. The man stood, shaking his light brown head of hair as he did so. Clearing his throat softly, he spoke.

"Hello. I'm Aaron Pittmann. I was twenty-five when I was murdered by a highwayman in Madrid, Spain in 1815. That's when I first realized I was immortal. I was the son of English immigrants living in Spain. I have been a carpenter, pilot, teacher, and a police officer. I now work as a stuntman in Hollywood films. I guess I should mention that I've called a few other people who might be able to help us, too. I should hear back from them soon."

Pittmann glanced to his right as he sat. The next man stood quickly. He was tall with long blond hair and blue eyes and was dressed head-to-toe in Hugo Boss casual attire. He began his introduction right away.

"I'm Hewett Penn. I've also placed a few calls. I'm a relatively new Immortal compared to many of you, at least I would guess." Penn's accent was slightly Germanic. "I was born in Bonn, Germany in 1910. I died in 1943 in Belgorod, Russia while serving in the _Wehrmacht._ I was a professional soldier then and I am so now, though in a private capacity."

"A mercenary," commented the other female Immortal in the room.

"Yes," Penn dryly as he sat. "That is one word for it."

The next man smiled at Siobhan warmly as he stood. He waved at those in the room.

"Hi, I'm Michal Batakova. I'm a little older than some of you. I was born in 1242 near what is now Smiljan, Croatia. In 1266, I was in a carriage accident and had a skull fracture. That is how I died the first time. I have no formal education but I can read and write in several languages and have worked as a farmhand and as a translator. I have also worked as a security guard and a rancher."

Next to Batakova was a well-dressed man who, by all appearances, was in his late thirties. He stood and looked around the room, spending a few seconds on each face. With a slight nod, he began.

"Greetings. I am the Baron Darmond Bilsby. I have been alive since the year of our Lord 922. I became immortal thirty-eight years later when I fell from my horse and broke my back. It took me two days to die from that accident and two horrible days they were. Though my nobility is minor, the fortune I have amassed during my life is not. I suspect I know the direction Ms. O'Banian plans to lead this little party once our introductions are completed and I, in conjunction with Mr. MacNaughton, I am sure, am perfectly willing to finance it. I also have contacts with many others whose skills could be useful, if my conjecture is correct.

"As far as my own abilities and prior experience, I have a multitude of skills in the areas of languages, finance, and politics, as well as knowledge of law, chemistry, and aviation. I am also an expert shot with a rifle and a pistol, should that be necessary."

James MacNaughton smiled as Bilsby resumed his seat. Standing, he addressed the small group.

"Good afternoon, everyone. For those who do not know me already, I am James MacNaughton. I, too, think I know what Siobhan is going to suggest at the end of this and, since I have done well for myself over the years, I will naturally contribute toward the success of it.

"As far as information about myself, I am over two thousand years old. By the Gregorian calendar, I was born in 285 BCE and I first died in 260 BCE. I was born in what is now Ireland, in fact, in the town where I still live, Armagh. I have been a soldier for most of my life but recently I have chosen to pursue a slightly more peaceful way of making a living. You can laugh if you want but I am now the masked wrestler known as Seamus in the United States. No one else except you eight know this fact."

MacNaughton grinned as a few of those present chuckled, but no one laughed in any sort of belittling fashion. MacNaughton sat. Razumov began to speak next. MacNaughton nudged him to remind him to stand.

"Hello. I am Marton Razumov. I am Russian and was born in 1850. I died in 1881 when I was thirty during an attempted assassination of Tsar Alexander II. I have worked as a soldier; I have been a monk; and I have been a construction worker. I most recently lived in Toronto where I worked construction for the last four years. After I was attacked by Watchers where they killed a priest in front of me, I fled and came to the U.K. where, on Siobhan's suggestion, I took up residence with Mr. MacNaughton."

The last person to speak was the other female Immortal in the room. Petite with dark brown hair and hazel eyes, she stood confidently and addressed the room as if she did such for a living - which she did.

"I am Ruth Okin. My original name was Safiyah Mifsud. My birthplace was in Jerusalem in 22 BCE. After being raped when I was nineteen, I confessed this fact to my husband, a marriage of convenience rather than love, a year later. He accused me of adultery and had me stoned to death in the town square. I revived as an Immortal later that evening.

"I have travelled pretty much the entire world during my life and can speak many of its languages. I am also familiar with the customs of most of the cultures of the world. I have been a farmer, a wanderer, a travel hostess, an explorer, a businesswoman, a sea captain, a surveyor, even a preacher. I am currently a leadership trainer for a major corporation.

"In summation, regarding myself personally, I would rather farm than fight, but I realize there is a time when one must take up arms or die. I would rather die on my feet than live on my knees."

O'Banian stood again, nodding to herself. She ran a hand through her red hair, more for something to do before she spoke rather than to move it from her face, and spoke to them all once more.

"Okay, thank ye for that everyone. I'm glad that we could get to know a little bit about each other. Now, I want to explain what I have in mind. Please wait until I'm finished before ya say anythin' about it. I'll let ya ask yer questions. Fer now, just let me talk."

She ran her eyes over the small group, looking for any signs of objection. There were none. She blinked her green eyes twice and began.

"Alright, here goes. Now, I have put a lot of thought into this and while it might sound extreme, believe me it is the only way we can be sure of our own safety in the future." O'Banian took a breath, searching the eyes of each Immortal in the room before she resumed voicing her thoughts.

"I propose," she began, "that we utterly destroy the Watcher Organization. First, we start in Great Britain, then we move on to Europe and then successfully to each continent thereafter. Every Hunter that has come after us is a Watcher. Every Watcher is a potential Hunter. We kill 'em all. And we kill everyone attached to them. That means their families, too. They have done that to us. Just read the papers. They have murdered Immortals and their wives or husbands. We return the favor to them. We take out their entire households. Everyone who wears a Watcher tattoo an' everyone who knows and loves a Watcher must die. Once that is done, we know we have our security. Without success in this, we will always be in danger from these Watchers, these Hunters.

"I already have a short list of names and locations of some of these Watchers. We can start in a very short time and expand our operations very quickly. As we gather information and numbers, we can increase our tempo even faster. It will still take a long time. Could take years. I don't know how many Watchers there are in the world. I know I'm going to kill a hell of a lot of them, though, or they're going to kill me. If taking out every one of these people and all of their families is what I need to do so I an' the people I love can sleep safely at night then that is what I'm willin' ta do. I don't care how long it takes."

Silence greeted her. O'Banian blinked again and let her eyes roam across the room, locking with the gaze of each Immortal in the group for a brief moment. None of them responded verbally but, after a second or two, each of them nodded their assent. After the last nod, she smiled and her eyes brightened.

"Thank you, everyone. I know we're a small group right now. We can grow and make this effort of ours a powerful force. We'll make our mark on the Watchers. We won't be forgotten."

"Have you thought of a name for this little council of yours?" asked Bilsby. "Every good movement needs a name."

O'Banian locked her jaw in place to keep it from dropping. She had never considered such a thing. After a moment of contemplation, she smiled again and spoke back to the baron.

"Why get complicated with it, Baron Bilsby? Let's just go with the name you just cited. The Council."

MacNaughton grinned at that proposal. "I'm fine with that. I move that we call this little organization of ours, The Council. All in favor?"

The room chattered with a chorus of "ayes" and the group raised their hands in unison. As a matter of course, MacNauton went through the motions of saying, "All against?" None responded.

"The motion carries," he said. "We shall be known as The Council. And I believe it goes without saying that Siobhan O'Banian should be elected as the leader of The Council."

The room echoed again with a unanimous response of "ayes." O'Banian blushed.

"Thank you, everyone. I humbly accept. And you will not regret this decision."


	16. Beating Plowshares Into Swords

Chapter 15  
Beating Plowshares Into Swords

"Just lay your head back on the ground  
And let your hair spill all around me  
Offer up your best defense  
But this is the end."

"The End of the Innocence" - Don Henley

25 September 1999  
Wembley, England

"Here is the key to your room, Mr. White," said Mrs. Dursley with a pleasant grin as she accepted the man's first two months of rent in cash. "I will let you know what the utility costs are at the end of each month. I will prorate your cost of them based on the square meters of the room versus the whole house. Fair enough?"

"That's perfectly fair, Mrs. Dursley," replied Darren Dublin with a smile. "Thank you very much. He hefted his bag onto his shoulder and looked at the nearby stairwell then back at the middle-aged woman. "Once I drop off my belongings, where is a library? I haven't a laptop and I would like to check my email. I haven't done so in a good while and I'm sure it's piling up on me. There might even be something worth reading rather than a bunch of junk mail."

"Oh, that's easy," said Mrs. Dursley, her grin growing. "You're actually less than a kilometer from a library. Are you going on foot or in a car?"

"On foot."

"Okay. Head southeast on Coopers Lane for about one hundred meters. Then turn left onto Brill Place and go about sixty meters. Turn right onto Midland Road. Go about four hundred meters. Turn right onto Euston Road - it's also called the A501 - and go about eighty meters. Turn right, go another hundred meters to 96 Euston Road, and you're there. You should get there in about nine or ten minutes. Got all that?"

"Yes, I do." Dublin repeated the directions back to her.

"Very good," she replied. "Most people mess that up the first time."

Dublin laughed. "I've done this a time or two. Thank you very much."

The directions were spot on and Dublin entered The British Library twelve minutes after he deposited his bags in the one-room flat. He checked out a computer and made his way to the assigned terminal. Logging into a proxy server before going to his webmail, he entered his login ID and password. His email inbox opened up before him.

As he expected, there was a substantial amount of mail he did not need to read. His email address was a random array of characters on the Yahoo server. It was no surprise to him that a large amount of spam mail arrived in the inbox. The likelihood of his address being guessed by a typical phisher, however, was another story. He spent his first ten minutes selecting spam and sending it to the trash. Less than ten messages remained when he was finished. He started with the oldest and worked his way up to the most recent.

The first message, from nearly four months ago, was from Jonny Fairbanks. The boy had written him a lengthy letter detailing his life in Atlanta and inviting him to come visit anytime. Dublin smiled and moved the message to his "Reply Now" folder. He would answer that one before he left the library. He moved on to the next message.

The next six emails were the normal chatter from friends of his, just the typical "hello, how are you? Come see us. We should talk more," kind of messages. Dublin chose to answer some now and some not at all. The eighth email, though, was completely out of the ordinary. It was from David Ashton and had arrived two days before. Dublin read the short message in its entirety. Then he read it again.

"Shit," he whispered.

He read the email one more time, committing the key points to memory and logged out of the email server. There were more important things to do right now than read mushy letters. He had to get ready for war. What he had seen in Spain was obviously not a localized event; it was an epidemic. He had a lot of work to do. He walked out of the library and sent straight to the nearest public phone. He called the hotel Ashton had mentioned and confirmed his attendance at the meeting on the third. He then called the train station and booked a ticket for transport to Winchester on the second. That done, he began his walk back to his flat, his mind racing with the other tasks he still had to accomplish before he met with Ashton.

xxxxxxxxxx

26 September 1999  
Seattle, Washington

Sighing with relief, Alan Ottenbreit sat behind his desk and sipped a cup of coffee. The Regional Director had not been pleased to learn of the death of four Watchers, especially when one of them was a new recruit, six days ago and had ordered an investigation. Ottenbreit, Gironelli, and the other Hunters had to create an airtight cover story on the spot and deal with a horde of besuited agents scouring the facility for the last several days asking endless questions. It had been a maddening affair. Now, at last, it was over. The agents were satisfied that the new recruit, Natalie Lansky, had some sort of underlying psychological issue, had snapped, killed three men, and had been shot before she could cause anymore trouble.

Now Ottenbreit could concentrate finally on the ramifications of Fairbanks' escape. He'd had great plans in store for the boy Immortal. Now those were dashed. He'd have to come up with an alternate idea quickly or the other phase of the European operation would quickly falter. It was already at a standstill due to the actions of Max Correll, damn him, and had only continued for a time based on the limited work they had been able to do in advance of the man's treachery. Werner Heinz may have taken care of Correll but that did not solve the underlying problem. Ottenbreit sipped from his mug again and let his thoughts wander. He needed a solution fast.

The Hunter grinned to himself. He had only to foresee the actions of his enemies, as much as that was possible, and make the necessary moves to meet his needs despite them. It was all too easy. He had all the updates from Europe telling him of recent events already. The Immortals thought they were going to counter his campaign against them. Well, he would see to that. He could get what he needed and even strike a blow against them at the same time.

Chuckling to himself, Ottenbreit picked up his phone and dialed a number. He waited for the odd tones to switch over to the European lines. A man's voice answered.

"Hallo?"

"It's Ottenbreit," he said in English. "I think things may still work out for Checkmate. Find me one like Target One Eighty-Seven. Notify Spencer and Ulrey to stand ready."

"It shall be done." The man hung up.

Ottenbreit sat back and smiled. He already knew the basic moves his opponents would make. He just had to guide them in the right direction so that they moved their pieces across the board as he desired. Yes, it was all too easy after all.

xxxxxxxxxx

27 September 1999  
Seattle, Washington

Fairbanks had linked up with the Whitakers, Todd and Sheila, the night he escaped from the Hunter facility. He had dumped the car and called them from a public phone, arranging for them to pick him up several kilometers from the dump site. He then ran from the pay phone to the location he had chosen. He kept to the shadows as much as possible, not sure how the residents would respond to the sight of a shirtless, barefoot boy dashing through their neighborhoods, especially when he was carrying a sword in one hand.

While waiting concealed in some shrubbery, Fairbanks had examined the blade of his wakizashi for damage. He knew dragging it across the ground as he had was not good for its edge and it would need some care once he was safe. As he thought, there were a few little knicks along the blade. They could be buffed out, given the right tools, which he had in his bag, but it was back at the compound. He hoped Todd Whitaker had similar equipment. He was grateful that his other prized weapons, his Fairbyrn-Sykes dagger and his NAPOLA knife, were safely packed away in the baggage being transported overland and not lost forever with his suitcase.

The Whitaker's car drove slowly along the road, its headlights off, only the running lights on for now. Fairbanks stepped out of cover so they could see him, waving a hand just to be sure. The car stopped.

"Hi, could you guys give me a lift to Burger King?" he asked, smiling.

"Sure," answered Sheila from the passenger seat, "but I'm buying the first vanilla shake."

That was the prearranged response. Fairbanks opened the door to the backseat and got into the car, slamming the door. He heaved a heavy sigh.

"Thanks for coming," he said.

"No problem," answered Todd, stepping on the gas and turning on the headlights. "Do you think anyone's behind you?"

"I don't think so. Let's cruise around for a while, just in case, though."

"Will do," Todd replied.

When they got to the Whitaker's home later that night, Sheila had given Fairbanks a t-shirt to wear. It was still too big for him, but he accepted it anyway. The next day, they went to a thrift store and got some more suitably-sized clothing for him. Sheila apologized for it not being the quality that Ashton would have provided him. Fairbanks assured her that he was perfectly fine with second-hand clothes. He was glad just to be dressed.

The Whitakers turned out to be a wonderful couple. At least the first week with them seemed to be that way. Both of them had work-from-home businesses. Todd worked as a medical recruiter and Sheila was a medical coding and billing specialist. Their house, which had several spare bedrooms, had two rooms converted into home offices and the two of them each simply walked into those rooms each morning and, just like that, they were at work. Fairbanks thought about how Ashton did the same at his various homes. He commented to them that entrepreneurship must run in Immortal blood. The Whitakers laughed. Todd replied that he got the idea from Sheila who, unlike him, was mortal.

Fairbanks was allowed to see to his own education which was very much the way Ashton had done. Being that he was only a teenager in a physical sense, it was a reasonable arrangement. There was a high-speed internet connection in the house and Fairbanks spent a great deal of time reading history and philosophy, usually in the original languages in which they were written.

In the evenings, the Whitakers made a point to spend time with Fairbanks. They would talk, play board games, or watch movies. Todd liked to wrestle on the floor and Sheila was a hugger and a cuddler. Fairbanks enjoyed all of these activities and engaged in them with boundless energy. After the third night there, he surprised them both when he started falling asleep with his head in one or the other's lap. After six years of marriage and believing they would forever be without progeny, the couple finally had a child they could call their own, at least for a while.

xxxxxxxxxx

29 September 1999  
Kilfinan, Scotland

Kilfinan is a tiny hamlet on the Cowal peninsula in Argyll and Bute, Scotland. Located on the eastern side of Loch Fyne, the hamlet is six point four kilometers northwest of the village of Tighnabruaich. Kilfinan is the burial place of the clan chiefs of the Lamonts, in the thirteenth-century Kilfinan Parish Church. The parish covers the entire western part of Cowal. It was hardly the place where O'Banian expected to find the family of the late Andrew Dixon, but here they were.

It was a quaint little house, one-story and mostly concealed by trees and shrubbery. There was a low stone wall and even a little pink phone box along the front. On the other side of the stone wall, the stone became a stone and wrought-iron gate extending for forty meters or so before resuming its wall formation again and extending all the way down the B8000 road for at least another hundred meters. The house identified itself as Otter Estates.

"The Watchers must pay pretty well," commented O'Banian. "Still rather humble for an estate, though."

The front gate was open. The little hamlet was anything if not trusting. There would be no need for the Council, ensconced in their three vehicles, to search for a way to break through any defenses. There wasn't even a dog. The only real problem was there was another house directly across the street from this one.

O'Banian did not concern herself with this fact. It was ten o'clock at night. The lights in the other house were out and, chances were, the inhabitants of it were already asleep. Such was the way of small towns. She expected the same of the people inside the Otter Estates house. This should be an easy hit.

The nine Immortals alighted from their vehicles, a hodge-podge of weapons - swords and firearms - in their hands. They gathered around O'Banian in the darkness for final instructions.

"Alright," she said, "there are four of them in there. "The wife and three young boys. Secure the kids first and the woman shouldn't resist us after that. We'll then separate them and get whatever information we can from her." She pointed to Bilsby, MacNaughton, and Okin. "You three take the boys into their rooms and deal with them quietly. We'll take care of the wife when we're done with her. Got it?"

Everyone nodded. O'Banian then indicated De Lioncourt and Razumov. "You two keep watch out front and let us know if anyone comes up to try surprising us." She then turned her gaze to Penn and Batakova. "You two do the same in back, just in case." There were more nods all around. "Okay," she whispered. "Go."

Taking the front, O'Banian and Pittman walked through the gate, making for the front door. MacNaughton, Bilsby, and Okin were directly behind them in a line. They paused only for seconds at the door. As expected, it was not locked. O'Banian reached to the side and switched on the interior lights. They stepped through the foyer and into the sitting room. Passing through it without a sound, they made their way down the hall toward the bedrooms.

There were five doorways to the side of the hall and one at the end. They presumed one to be a bathroom and the others to be bedrooms. The first was such but had been converted into a home office, possibly for the husband. A laptop computer sat closed on the wooden desk. They continued down the hall. The next door was open, revealing a toilet and bath. The other doors were shut save one.

There was a nightlight on in the room with the open door. Its illumination revealed a small form under a bundle of blankets. Ruth Okin separated silently from the group and entered the room. Continuing on, just as they heard a mumbled, confused voice from the first room and Okin's low "Shh," Bilsby opened the second bedroom door. The interior showed all of the normal decorations of a boy of about ten, mainly cartoon heroes and spaceships. It's sleeping occupant was sprawled atop the covers in just a pair of shorts, his limbs spread in every direction. Across the wall above the bed in large blue letters, the name "NATHAN" was spelled out. Bilsby smiled and placed a hand over the boy's open mouth to wake him.

MacNaughton soundlessly opened the third child's door and took a step inside. He frowned and came out again, motioning to O'Banian. She approached him, looking into the room. Her frown matched his. There were two sleeping boys in the bed. Young Andrew Dixon, Jr. had a friend over to visit tonight. O'Banian waved a hand at Pittman and pointed inside the room. She stepped aside so he could see. With a glance, he understood her intent. He should join MacNaughton in capturing the boys.

O'Banian tapped the two men on the shoulder and whispered into their ears. They nodded. She continued down the hall toward the master bedroom alone. She found Marla Dixon sound asleep on her side of the bed, one arm flung out as if in search of her absent husband. O'Banian almost grinned at the sight of it.

_You'll not be finding him, bitch,_ she thought,_ unless you go travelin' out to Skye to find his bones._

Clicking back the hammer of her .357 with one hand as she clicked the bedside lamp with the other, O'Banian said aloud, "Time to be wakin' up now, Marla. We've got some talkin' to do."

Marla Dixon's eyelids were already fluttering when the revolver's hammer began to rotate its cylinder. The foreign sound of it echoing in the bedroom was loud indeed. The woman's head turned toward the unfamiliar voice and instantly saw the clearly defined shape of the woman standing near her bed. Her mouth opened to scream. O'Banian silenced her with a point of the weapon.

"Uh, uh," she warned the mother. "Not a sound from that mouth o' yers," she said. "Ya don' want those kids o' yers ta hear their mother gettin' her head blown off with this massive gun now, do ya?"

Marla, staring directly down the revolver, its barrel made all the larger by its proximity and her fear, shook her head in shock.

"Good," said O'Banian in a soothing voice. "Now sit up and get on yer robe an' slippers. Come on into the sittin' room and let's have a nice chat. Cooperate with me an' you won't have to watch those boys o' yers die in front o' ya. Ya don't wanna see that, do ya?"

Marla shook her head again. "You haven't hurt them, have you?" she asked, her voice barely a croak.

"Oh, no," O'Banian promised. "They're fine right now. Come talk ta me now and then you and those kiddies can join their daddy and be nice an' happy an' not have to worry 'bout the likes o' me anymore."

With trepidation in her every movement, Marla stood and complied with O'Banian's orders. She walked in front of O'Banian out of the bedroom and down the hall toward the sitting room. At each child's bedroom, she slowed and her head turned. O'Banian nudged her forward again each time. Once in the sitting room, she bade the woman to sit on the sofa. O'Banian took one of the overstuffed chairs, her revolver still pointed languidly at the mother.

"Now, Marla," she said. "We're gonna talk for a bit. I'll decide what to do next after that…if I like what ya say. Don't try lyin' to me. If ya do, I'll bring yer youngest out here and kill 'im in front o' ya. Each time ya lie, I'll bring out another one until ya run outta kids. After that, I'll kill you. Fair enough?"

Marla Dixon gulped audibly and nodded. "Please don't hurt my children," she begged. "Little Daniel isn't even my son. He's just Andy's friend. He's visiting tonight."

"Then be honest with me and he won't get hurt, either, Marla," said O'Banian, grinning.

Marla sobbed, tears welling up in her eyes. "What do you want?"

O'Banian leaned forward in her seat, her elbows on her knees. "I want to know about the work yer husband does, Marla. Tell me about him. Tell me about the others like him who do the same thing."

Marla's eyes went wide, the tears dropping down her cheeks. Her face reddened. "I…I can't…"

"You can't do that?" chided O'Banian, her voice rising an octave. "Would you still have that problem if I slit yer oldest boy's throat right now?"

"No!" said Marla, holding her hands out in front of her. "No, don't do that. I… I… I'm not supposed to talk about what Andrew does. They're a secret organization."

"Are they so secret they're worthy dyin' fer?" O'Banian asked her.

Marla only considered the question for a heartbeat. "No," she replied.

"Then talk."

"They're called the Watchers. They keep an eye on Immortals and write down facts about their lives. You probably think that's crazy."

"That they watch people like voyeurs?"

"No," answered Marla, almost grinning, "that Immortals exist. People who can live forever."

"Oh, no. I've heard of stranger things than that, Marla. Much stranger things."

Marla's jaw dropped nearly to her chest.

"You're an Immortal yourself." O'Banian nodded. "And my husband was watching you?"

"He was doin' a bit more than that, Marla. He an' some o' his buddies were tryin' to kill me, to take my head, a few days ago."

Marla's jaw fell again. "That's not what Watchers do. They only record the lives of Immortals. They don't kill them."

"He tried to. Now, tell me more about him and the others."

"I don't know anything else. Anything else would be on his computer in his office."

"Is there a password or any other sort of security to get into it?"

"There's a password," Marla admitted.

"What is it?"

Marla hesitated. O'Banian raised the revolver.

"Glenlivet," Marla nearly screamed. "Capital G."

"Is that all?"

"Yes."

"Thank you, Marla."

O'Banian fired the .357 magnum once. The round passed through Marla Dixon's left eye and penetrated the back of her skull, embedding itself into the wall behind her. Standing, the red-haired woman stretched slowly, letting her spine pop several times before turning toward the hallway to call out to her compatriots.

"It's done. Let's get the computer and go."

xxxxxxxxxx

30 September 1999  
Glasgow, Scotland

"This computer is a gold mine," commented James MacNaughton, his fingers tapping on the laptop's keyboard. "We've got everything we could want here. Names, addresses, everything. It's all here."

O'Banian grinned at his statement. "Not bad fer our first outing, then. We can really make some money, so ta speak, from now on."

"It's a good thing we're not going after Immortals," added MacNaughton, "because that's all here, too."

"Heh," scoffed O'Banian. "That might be useful. A little bit. But I don't really care about other Immortals. It's the Watchers I want. All of them."

"Well, you've got them," MacNaughton grinned. "You're even able to tap into their private network with this thing. As long as they don't find out you have it and shut out this particular machine, you can keep tabs on everything they do. You've got an inside look at everything Andrew Dixon could see."

"How much is that?"

MacNaughton leaned toward the screen. "From what I can see here, there are different levels, think of them as ranks, I guess, each with their own degrees of access to information. Dixon was a Field Watcher. That's the lowest rank, but the most numerous. They still have access to a hell of a lot since they're out there in the field. I guess they have to since they come into contact with other Watchers and Immortals. Dixon has a listing of every Watcher in Europe and a worldwide listing of Immortals. He can also see the structure of the organization.

"The Watchers have an interesting structure to their organization. Worldwide, there are over eleven thousand Field Watchers, seven hundred twenty Area Directors who may be responsible for a small country or part of a larger country, seventy-two District Directors who may be responsible for one or more countries, six Regional Directors who have a continent each except for the South American director who also has Antarctica, and one Executive Director of Watchers who is the boss of them all. There are also over twenty-three thousand archivists and researchers who solely work on the chronicles of Immortals. I guess they're like librarians. Then there are another twenty thousand or so that are support staff for the rest of them. That's over fifty-fix thousand people in total.

"That's a huge organization, Siobhan. And you want to take down the entire thing?"

O'Banian tossed her red hair over her shoulder and nodded. "Yes," she affirmed. "All of it. Every last one of them and down to the last stone. I don't care how long it takes."


	17. All Out Of Hope?

"I spend so much time  
Believing all the lies  
To keep the dream alive  
Now it makes me sad  
It makes me mad at truth"

"Eyes Without a Face" - Billy Idol

02 October 1999  
Seattle, Washington

_Have they gotten to her already? Please, God, I hope not._

Fairbanks waited impatiently as the phone continued ringing, horrid thoughts running through his mind as it did so. He knew trying to connect to a line half a world away was going to be difficult given the difference in time zones and the like, but it was not going to stop him from trying. Alyssa Cordeiro had been a friend of his for sixty-nine years. More than a friend. A lover, a confidante, a true companion. He could not let her go without a warning of the current danger, could he?

The third ring sounded in the boy's ear. He glanced at his watch with a growing sense of unease. It was eleven o'clock in the morning. Even with the eight hour time difference between Seattle, Washington and Sagres, Portugal, it would only be seven o'clock in the evening there. Was Allysa not answering because she wasn't home, had moved away, or something worse? Fairbanks shut his eyes and forced himself not to think about that possibility.

"_Olá?"_ (Hello?) answered a slightly breathless Alyssa Cordeiro. _"Eu sinto Muito. Eu tive que colocar minhas compras e atravessar a sala."_ (I'm sorry. I had to put my groceries down and run across the room.)

Fairbanks grinned. Her voice was always enchanting regardless of the language she used. He could picture the girl leaning on her kitchen counter and twisting a lock of her long black hair around one finger as she spoke.

"_Alyssa, esse é o Jonny."_ (Alyssa, this is Jonny.)

"_Oi, Jonny." "_(Hi, Jonny.) Alyssa's voice perked up with excitement. "_Já faz quase um mês. Eu estava começando a pensar que você tinha me esquecido."_ (It's been almost a month. I was starting to think you'd forgotten me.)

"_Eu nunca poderia fazer isso. Não importa quantos anos se passe, você sempre será a garota para mim."_ (I could never do that. No matter how many years pass you'll always be the girl for me.)

"_Você é um amorzinho."_ (You are such a sweetheart.)

"_Sinto muito, minha querida, mas não liguei para recuperar os velhos tempos e sussurrar carinhos em seus ouvidos."_ (I'm sorry, my dear, but I didn't call to catch up on old times and to whisper endearments into your ear.) Fairbanks' indicated he would truly rather be doing the latter rather than his intended purpose.

"_Oh, mas você é tão bom naqueles ... e em sussurrar coisas mais quentes no meu ouvido."_ (Oh, but you're so good at those...and at whispering hotter things in my ear.)

"_Eu gostaria de poder fazer isso também, mas isso é mais sério._ (I wish I could do that, too, but this is more serious.)

The playfulness faded from Cordeiro's voice. _"Sério? Gosta do quão sério."_ (Serious? Like how serious.)

"_Ameaçador de vida."_ (Life threatening.)

"_Você tem toda a minha atenção agora, querida."_ (You have my full attention now, dear.)

"_Lembra quando David nos contou sobre um grupo de pessoas chamadas de Observadores há alguns anos?"_ (Remember when David told us about a group of people called Watchers a few years ago?)

"_Sim."_ (Yes.)

"_Bem, há aparentemente um grupo dissidente daquela organização que mata Imortais. Eles me atacaram há duas semanas. Eu só fugi porque um Observador amigável me ajudou a escapar."_ (Well, there is apparently a splinter group of that organization that kills Immortals. They attacked me two weeks ago. I only got away because a friendly Watcher helped me escape.)

"_Oh meu Deus."_ (Oh, my God.)

"_Todas essas pessoas que ouvi falar falavam com sotaque europeu, então estou apostando que a maioria delas está operando na Europa. Um deles falou comigo sobre a eliminação de todos os Imortais. Essas pessoas são Observadores, então eles precisam saber onde você mora agora. Eu acho que você precisa sair de onde você está agora e encontrar um lugar seguro para se esconder."_ (All of these people that I heard talking spoke with European accents so I am betting that most of them are operating in Europe. One of them spoke to me about eliminating all Immortals. These people are Watchers so they have to know where you live right now. I think you need to leave where you are now and find a safe place to hide.)

"_O que você está fazendo agora? Você está se escondendo também?"_ (What are you doing right now? Are you hiding, too?)

"_Sim, estou com uma família em Washington. David disse algo sobre "ser caçado" antes de me mandar embora. Eu acho que ele pode ter tido alguma indicação de que isso estava acontecendo - ou talvez apenas sentiu algo, você sabe como ele é - e me queria em um lugar seguro."_ (Yeah, I'm with a family in Washington. David said something about "being the hunted" before he sent me away. I think he may have had some indication this was going on - or maybe just sensed something, you know how he is - and wanted me in a safe place.)

"_Você vai ficar aí? Eu poderia me juntar a você."_ (Are you going to stay there? I could come join you.)

"_Não! Não faça isso. Essas pessoas já têm uma ideia de onde eu estou. Eu não quero você em nenhum perigo adicional. Mesmo se eu me envolver mais com isso, eu gostaria que você ficasse fora disso. Eu quero que você esteja segura. Por -me um e-mail para saber como entrar em contato quando tudo acabar."_ (No! Don't do that. These people already have some idea of where I am. I don't want you in any additional danger. Even if I get more involved in this thing, I would like you to stay out of it. I want you to be safe. Please. Just send me an email so I know how to contact you when it's all over.)

Cordeiro huffed into the phone, her displeasure with her long distance Immortal boyfriend obvious. _"Okay. Eu não gosto disso, mas vou fazer por você. Eu prefiro estar com você, no entanto."_ (Okay. I don't like it, but I'll do it for you. I'd rather be with you, though.)

"_Eu sei. Eu sinto o mesmo. Obrigado minha querida. Eu te amo."_ (I know. I feel the same. Thank you, my dear. I love you.)

"_Eu também te amo, Jonny. Fique seguro."_ (I love you, too, Jonny. Stay safe.)

"_Eu vou. Tchau, minha querida Alyssa."_ (I will. Bye, my dear, Alyssa.)

"_Tchau, Jonny Fair."_ (Bye, bye, Jonny Fair.)

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03 October 1999  
Westminster, England

Devon Sather kept his face more impassive than usual. He was on camera now and his visage was being broadcast to the EDOW and the other five Regional Directors around the world. It was time for him to be more professional. He mentally grinned. At least more professional than he had been with his own boss these last few weeks. Across the top of the large flatscreen monitor, the live broadcasts of the other RDs were displayed. Michael Walker's frowning face filled the center of the screen.

"Alright, everyone," said Walker, calling the meeting to order. "Thank you for coming to this meeting. This is the first time we have used the Voice-Over-IP system so I hope it goes well." Walker glanced to the side where, Sather was sure, a nervous IT technician was sweating over an operations board trying to keep the various audio and video streams going.

"As per usual, the language of this meeting will be English," Walker clarified. "Please keep all of your communication in that language for the clear understanding of all in attendance." This directive brought frowns of displeasure from some, particularly the African and South American directors, but they nodded nonetheless.

Walker cleared his throat and faced the camera again. "I would like to start out with an explanation of the current crisis facing us in Europe and, to a lesser extent, in North America. In the past six weeks, there has been a resurgence of Hunter activity that dwarves any such previous events we have experienced. While other uprisings have been extremely localized, usually centered only in one city, this problem is spread across the entirety of both continents. One hundred thirty-two Immortals are confirmed to have been killed in Europe as of this morning and, in North America, another twenty-one.

"None of these killings are at the hands of other Immortals. We have separated out those deaths from these. All those I have mentioned show signs of some form of other weapons, such as guns or tasers, being used to first incapacitate the Immortals prior to their heads being taken."

Chan-ri Bahk, the Asian director, spoke up. "How do we know this is not a group of Immortals on a killing spree and simply using unconventional methods? It's happened before. This might be the case again."

"Simple," replied Walker. "Reports from Watchers on the scene, those who have survived anyway, were that there were no Quickenings at the times of the killings. None at all. If an Immortal were present, this would not be the case."

Nada Didier, the African director, frowned deeply and leaned toward her microphone. "You said "those who survived." Have Watchers been killed, as well?"

"Yes. To date, we have lost thirty-eight Watchers at the scenes of these killings, forty-seven in Europe and eleven in America. The people doing this know who the Watchers of these Immortals are and are completely familiar with their surveillance techniques. That means other Watchers. In other words, Hunters."

"We can't blame all of our losses on Hunters, I'm afraid," interjected Jackson Wrigley. "As much as it is embarrassing to admit, four of the deaths in my region were due to the actions of a deranged recruit in Washington. She killed three men before others in the facility were able to take her down."

"No matter how we count the deaths, Jackson," continued Walker, "Watchers as well as Immortals are dying at an alarming rate." The other directors nodded, their heads bobbing up and down on the screen. "And, in the last week, it just got worse."

"How can it get worse than this?" asked Callum Shaw from Australia.

"A few days ago, on the twenty-ninth of last month, Marla Dixon, the wife of Andrew Dixon, and her three sons were found murdered in their homes. Marla was shot once in the head in the sitting room. Her boys were each in their bedrooms with their throats cut. Another boy, Daniel Robertson, age twelve, who was apparently visiting the family, was found tied and gagged in the master bedroom. He was unharmed but obviously terrified."

Walker paused to let that news sink in with the other directors. After a moment of silence, Juliana Oliveira, the South American and Antarctica director, asked her own question. "This is clearly a horrible event, but what does it have to do with the Hunters and the deaths of the Watchers in Europe and North America?"

Sather leaned in to respond to the question. "It ties in, Juliana, because Andrew Dixon and Roy Hardley were found dead two weeks ago at a converted church at the Isle of Skye. That was the home of the Immortal, Siobhan O'Banian. Since her body was not found and both of those men were shot to death, we can only assume she escaped. We believe Dixon and Hardley were Hunters. If our hypothesis is correct, O'Banian is striking back at the families of Watchers in retribution for that attack. Given her IRA background, it makes perfect sense."

"And," added Walker, "there have been two more attacks on Watcher families since the Dixons. Two days after the Dixon attack, Bernard Landow, his wife, Victoria, and their two children, Christina and Joseph, were all shot or knifed to death in their home. The next day, the same thing happened to Arianna Strickland and her family. Her husband, Martin, and son, Kyle, also perished in that attack.

"So, people, we now have a problem coming at us from two angles. We have Hunters killing Immortals and Watchers on one side and we have an angry Immortal killing Watcher families on the other."

Sather pressed his microphone button again. "So far, the attacks on Watcher families are in Scotland and working their way south. We don't know how many Immortals are involved or who their next target will be. We only know that Watchers and their families are in danger."

"What has been done to safeguard the families in the U.K.?" asked Didier.

"That is actually why we're here, Nada," answered Walker. "Devon has a proposal for us that he believes will both allow us to counteract the threat of the Hunters and that of the attacks on our families. I will now turn the presentation over to him."

Sather took a deep breath to ready himself. He could feel the sweat on his palms already. He ignored it and moved his hand to his mouse in preparation of bringing up his short slide presentation.

"I'll admit," he began, "that I just added the security of Watcher families to the concept a few days ago, but the idea isn't too bad a fit as an initial test bed for it. Let me explain." He clicked the icon at the bottom of his screen to bring up his presentation.

"As we have become painfully aware these last weeks, there is no security infrastructure, as far as manpower, within the Watcher organization. Sure, we have technology to secure our files and access to some of our facilities to an extent, but there is nothing to prevent even a moderately determined enemy from breaching any of our locations and slaughtering everyone inside."

Sather kept his grin hidden with some effort as queasy expressions appeared across all of the directors' faces. He continued.

"When we have a threat like Hunters, even if we identify who they are, if they are in significant numbers, more than ten or twenty, there is not really much we can do about them. They have weapons and are determined to resist, after all. What can we do except bum rush them and hope some of us live to tackle them? At least, right now, that is the only choice we have.

"And that is exactly what I am proposing we change. We need a security force with the capability of direct action. In civilian terms, that means they can attack the attackers, fight back on their own terms or better. With the right equipment and training, they can make small work of Hunters. Over time, they will even be able to guard Watchers in the field when they are assigned to track highly dangerous Immortals.

"We don't have the luxury of time and facilities for training right now so the first iteration of these guardians will have to start out as Watchers and other current employees who have prior military or police experience. We can refine that experience with training over time. We will assign these guardians to secure the homes of the families we deem to be the most at risk as well as assist in apprehending Watchers we determine to be suspected Hunters. The Hunters will then be brought before the Watcher Tribunal, as per our usual standard of justice, for review and, if necessary, sentencing."

"Director Sather," interrupted Callum Shaw. "It sounds to me like you are proposing a sort of Watcher police force. Or even an army. Is that what I am hearing? Do you want to form a small army within the Watcher Organization?"

"Essentially, yes. More like a police force, I'd say," replied Sather, nodding. "But more specialized than that. These people would be more along the lines of a SWAT team. They would not be trained for crime scene investigation or anything of that sort. As I said, they are to be primarily organized as a security force. They would be taught how to identify threats and the most expedient methods to take down that threat."

"You said these people could be used against dangerous Immortals. Doesn't this concept violate our non-interference principle?" Juliana Oliveira sat back, her challenge hanging in the air.

Sather blinked before responding. "Not in the slightest," he said. "These men will all still have been Watchers originally and the code they followed then still applies. Even then, they will be under strict controls. They would be commanded by a trustworthy individual. Their sub-commanders would all have to be of high moral character and the unit as a whole would be under the direct command of the EDOW himself. Only he would be able to authorize their use on any mission."

Oliveira nodded, Sather's words seeming to have satisfied her. "Thank you, Director Sather."

"This sounds like a huge risk to me," said Director Bahk, "Watchers with guns? It's quite the paradigm shift. I will admit we need to have some way to protect our people, but I can see so many ways this can go wrong. For example, what if the next group of Hunters sprang up from within this group of armed Watchers? Then we would have a more militarized Hunter threat - and a much more dangerous one - than we have now. I don't like the idea of hiring outside security to protect us, though. That seems to only invite the prospect of more corruption than we already have." Bahk sighed. "Perhaps this is the only way."

"I am also concerned," agreed Wrigley, "particularly with the fact that Director Sather is proposing we start this group off with little to no training other than what they may have had years before. I confess there is no time and nothing in the way of infrastructure to do it, but the notion itself is enough to cause alarm. Who would not have some level of anxiety knowing we're arming men and not providing them also with at least some modicum of training in their use and other methods needed to properly conduct their missions?"

Sather leaned in to answer the directors. "These are valid concerns you are expressing, every one of them. I, too, am uneasy about the lack of current training the members of this unit will have. Director Bahk is concerned about adequate controls over the men and keeping them from becoming a new threat to the organization. That, also, is completely valid. For the time, I believe the only way to overcome the training issue and any distress over any loose cannons with guns would be having the best possible leaders - at all levels - in command of this new unit. From the lowest team leader to the commander of the entire detachment, every officer must be of impeccable character and possess the best leadership qualities. They must supervise their subordinates effectively and remain vigilant against possible threats like all of those mentioned here.

"We will also derive another benefit from such leaders. Good leaders always find a way to improve their men. If we select the best leadership we can for this unit then despite the lack of current training now, they will get better over time. Their leadership will see to that in order to keep their men alive. That is what good leaders do."

Sensing the mood of the group, Walker took over the meeting once more. "Now, everyone, Devon's idea has implications for everybody here. His new unit will be responsible for security at all Watcher facilities. Since that affects all of you then all of you have a say in this. I would like to bring this up for a vote now. Everyone who agrees with this proposal, please raise your hands for the camera now."

Sather held up his hand and watched the top of his screen. Nada Didier, Chan-ri Bahk, and Jackson Wrigley the same. Only Juliana Oliveira and Callum Shaw kept their hands down. Since the EDOW only voted on such measures in the case of a tie, the motion had already passed. Walker would ask for the votes of those opposed just to get them on record.

"All those against?" Shaw and Oliveira raised their hands.

"The vote is four to two in favor. The proposal for a Watcher security force passes." Walker leaned back in his seat. After a breath, he added, "In light of this vote, I hereby promote Devon Sather from Regional Director of Europe to my personal staff. I am creating the position of Director of Operations Security with worldwide authority effective now. Director Sather will answer only to me and will be responsible for all security operations throughout the Watcher Organization. A new Regional Director for Europe will be selected from qualified candidates within the next five days. More information regarding the new security force will be disseminated to you as soon as it is available. I thank you for your attendance at this meeting, ladies and gentlemen. Have a pleasant day."

Walker turned to the IT technician next to him. "Please disconnect all streams except for Director Sather's, would you?"

"Yes, sir," replied the tech, clicking a few icons and hitting a key. "It's done. Still secure with Director Sather."

"First of all, Devon, congratulations on your new position. You've got a lot of work to do and little time to put together a group of people to help you do it. We also have to think about your replacement for the Regional Director seat. I was thinking about Fazekas László, Cari Prothero, or Danika Opperman. Do you have any suggestions?"

Sather closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair. He remained silent for a good fifteen seconds. "All of those people are very good," he commented. "Let's also consider Sudanek Yegorov, Ong Khemera, and Jeannette Vallotton. They're all District Directors of renown just like László, Prothero, and Opperman and will do an excellent job."

"Alright, Dev. You narrow those six down to three final candidates and I'll select the one person to fill the slot. Fair enough?"

"Will do, boss."

"Now, obviously, you can't do the job of selecting and organizing this new group, whatever we're going to call them, all yourself. You're going to need help with that. I'm giving you free reign to choose whomever you want from within the organization to assist you. You give me the names and they will be transferred to you. If they are in a director's seat of any sort, just be sure to choose someone to replace them, as well. I want as little disruption as possible with these moves. I know there will be some. That's to be expected. Just try to keep it down, if you can. We're already in turbulent times."

"Got it."

"Try to think about the future, too. I'm sure you're already doing that, though. How are we going to maintain this new group and improve it as time goes on?"

"Already thought of that. I've got a plan."

"Good. And, of course, I'll expect you to move to Paris."

"I figured you would, if this thing made it through today's meeting. I'll start packing. I don't have much stuff to move. I'll be there in a week or so. I should spend at least two days with the new RD to help him transition. It's more than anyone did for it."

Walker nodded. "Charge everything to the expense account. This is a company move."

"Thank you, Mike."

"That's all for now, Devon. You've got a lot on your plate now. I'll talk again with you soon."

"Alright, boss. Out here."

"Goodbye, Devon."

xxxxxxxxxx

Devon Sather sat in his seat, stunned that his proposal had been accepted. He had expected it to go down in flames and for him to have to settle for organizing a localized version of it in Europe only. Instead, he had succeeded in creating a new global force and had global responsibilities along with it. He also had a twenty-five percent pay increase, putting him somewhere in the neighborhood of eighty-three thousand pounds (at the current exchange rate, one hundred thirty-four thousand dollars) per year. He would have to look up the salary of the special staff to be sure.

Born in Nashua, New Hampshire in 1973, Sather was an only child. His parents, Jack and Stacy, divorced when he was four, with his mother gaining sole custody of the boy. Sather grew up without ever meeting his father, and did not, in fact, meet his father until Stacy died from breast cancer when Sather was sixteen.

Not long after reuniting with his father, Sather was startled to discover his father's membership in the Watcher Organization, as well as the existence of Immortals. The younger Sather wished to join the Watchers himself, but decided to put it off until he could be of some use to the millennia-old Organization. With the Watchers as his ultimate goal, Sather joined the United States Navy in 1990.

Sather was an above-average recruit, winning his choice of assignments following boot camp. He requested SEAL training. His request was granted only days later. He finished third in his class at BUD/S and, after completing the arduous training program, served with distinction for two years.

During his time with SEAL Team Two in Little Creek, Virginia, Sather earned a Master's Degree from Virginia Tech (to the amazement of his peers and instructors). Six months after having earned his degree; Sather was on deployment in Bosnia when he learned that his father was dead, killed by an Immortal while in the field.

Sather received permission for a compassionate discharge and left the Navy soon after that, having served only four full years, and, in 1994, immediately requested to join the Watchers. He was politely refused, the Organization's thinking being that he was out for revenge, and nothing more.

Frustrated, Sather applied for, and was accepted into, the FBI Academy. Once more, Sather excelled at training, graduating first in his class. He served with the Hostage Rescue Team for almost a year and a half, resigning from the Bureau only after he was finally accepted into the Watcher Organization on 06 August 1996.

Sather's hard charging attitude put him at the front of the class again at the Watcher Academy and he quickly became the favorite for the honor graduate recognition. He attained that title easily and was immediately put into the field. Since he claimed no connections in the United States, his first assignment was in Europe.

His leadership qualities did not go unrecognized as a result of his status as a new Watcher. Sather's performance reviews placed him consistently ahead of his peers and he was often commended for passing on the skills he had learned in the military and the FBI to other Watchers in order to improve their fieldcraft. Near the end of his second year in the organization, when the southern England area directorship chair became vacant, the district director immediately nominated Sather to fill the position. The other District Directors balked at the nomination, saying the youthful Watcher, barely twenty-five at the time, was too young for such a responsibility, but the EDOW chose him regardless.

Eleven months later, the European Regional Director, Alfred Metzer, retired from the Watcher Organization. Nine District Directors and Sather were nominated to replace Metzer. The same argument concerning Sather's age arose again. Once more, the complaints fell on deaf ears with the EDOW. He ultimately selected Sather for the European directorship despite the fact Sather had never held a district directorship. Michael Walker never looked back on his decision even when the hotheaded director occasionally lost his temper on the phone and let his sailor language slip out. Sather always performed to the highest degree.

Now, after a mere four months as the Regional Director for Europe, Sather was a member of the EDOW's special staff. He had to gasp at this fact. Three years in the Watchers and he had already topped out as far as promotions were concerned, unless he became the EDOW. He chuckled. Fat chance of that.

Shaking his head to bring himself back to reality, he logged onto an anonymous VPN server and sent a quick email. That done, he switched off his computer. He walked out of his office. Waving at Sandy and telling her he would be back the next day, he strolled out. He had to get home and start packing.

xxxxxxxxxx

03 October 1999  
Winchester, England  
Winchester Royal Hotel

David Ashton sat at the head of the long conference table. A small grin lit his otherwise impassive face. The turnout for the meeting was good. Including himself, fifteen of the original twenty-two people invited had arrived. He looked down the table to identify the rest of them: Lawrence Channing, Paderau Griffin, Maximillian Honnecker, Jasper Marion, Eric Doyle, Darren Dublin, Jennifer Ellis, Wallace Frazier, Winter Kjellson, Chris Pellier, James Pellier, Viktor Petrov, Payton Swift, and Charles Ulrich.

Seven places at the table were vacant. Each had a place card with a name: Jacob Forrester, Dalla Selbjorgsdottir, Jonas Cartell, Turan Abjer, Dominic Ackart, Hotsuma Bentenrai, and Joseph Madsen. All of those concerned had replied to Ashton's email and all had promised to join him at a later date, some as early as a month from today, some a few weeks later than that. Ashton had sworn to keep them updated on events until that time.

Ashton waited until everyone had their coffee or tea and had sat at their assigned seats before speaking. He tapped lightly on the table with his knuckles to call for an end to the chatter around the room. Silence quickly fell and heads turned his way. The Minoan let the grin spread across his lips.

"Thank you, everyone, for coming to this meeting. I know that, for many of you, it was quite an inconvenience to do so. Sadly, the reason for this assembly is quite necessary. As I said in my original email to all of you, there is a danger out there which threatens all of us and we must join forces in order to counter it. That is why I have called all of you here this morning.

"I will recap some of the information we have. There is an organization known as the Watchers which is a group of mortals who are aware of our existence. They have been around for nearly four thousand years. Their mission is to observe us and record the facts of our lives. Except for rare occasions throughout history, they have never interfered with us. When they have, it has been in the form of small splinter groups known as Hunters. These Hunters are radical offshoots of the Watchers who believe us to be a threat to mankind and therefore seek to destroy us. Thus far, as stated, these previous events have been small and localized. However, now we are facing an expanded version of that threat, a continental - or perhaps even intercontinental - version of the Hunters.

"The information I just gave you came from an anonymous insider within the Watcher Organization who reached out to us and provided us with the basics of the Hunter threat. It has been invaluable so far. This information is what has enabled us to organize to the bare extent that we have and allowed General Honnecker and his team to defeat a small group of Hunters in Austria. The reason for this Watcher's willingness to provide such information to us is the Hunters are not only a danger to Immortals but also to the Watchers themselves. Several Field Watchers have been killed while conducting surveillance of their assigned Immortals.

"What I propose to you today is not a campaign against the Watchers. I do not believe them to be a threat to us. If anything, I believe them to be just as concerned about the secrecy of our existence as we are. It is the Hunters who threaten us and they are what must be countered and destroyed. How we will do that will be the difficulty.

"Since our enemies are Watchers themselves, they are fully aware of our strengths and weaknesses. They know, for example, that we cannot fight on holy ground and take advantage of that fact by ambushing us there. They also make sure to attack us in numbers, use firearms, and take our heads when no other Immortals are around so that our Quickenings are lost."

There was a visible shudder around the room as he said the last part. Ashton continued.

"With this small group, and those who will be joining us soon, I want to begin a campaign of active resistance against these Hunters. We will start with several days of intelligence gathering of our own in order to gain as much information about our enemies as possible before we make any moves against them. We may have to center our operations here in Britain or in another country. We do not know enough right now to make any determinations. We will remain flexible until we know more about our foes and will adjust our tactics accordingly as we learn. For now, though, we will use this hotel as our base of operations but shall be prepared to relocate, if needed.

"I have initiated contact with certain elements of the black market to acquire the equipment needed for our fight. Darren, I will turn that responsibility over to you, if you don't mind." Dublin nodded. "Thank you. I will give you the details when this is concluded.

"I'd like for the rest of you, except for Payton, Max, and his people, to act as scouts. Go out into the field and find whatever data you can. Anything will be better than the zero we have at the moment. We will have a location here where you can call in whatever you find. The information will then be analyzed and plans made."

Ashton turned his gaze to Honnecker. "Max, I'd like for you, Lawrence, Jasper, and Viktor to set up and run an operations center to receive the reports from the scouts. I've reserved one of the smaller conference rooms for that purpose."

Honnecker acknowledged the directive with a nod and made a note on his laptop. As he did, he raised an eyebrow as a notification popped up. He concentrated on the screen.

"May I interject, General?"

"Of course," replied Ashton.

"I have just received a message from the anonymous Watcher's email account. He has an update for us. I'd like to read it to the group.

General Honnecker,

The Watchers have reacted to the Hunter attacks and some other events of which you should be aware. They have just agreed to form a security team composed of current employees with prior police or military experience. There is no time to give them additional training so these people will have to be put to work immediately. There is not even proper equipment yet for them. Who knows where they will get that?

This new team will be responsible for finding the Hunters and putting a stop to them. They will also guard critical Watcher facilities and, when necessary, Watchers in the field. Temporarily, they will also be tasked with providing security to the homes of Watchers in Europe, as manpower is available.

The reason for the last task is as follows. An Immortal who survived a Hunter attack has begun seeking retribution by killing Watchers and their families. We believe this Immortal to be Siobhan O'Banian but have not yet confirmed this fact. Regardless, this Immortal has probably put together a small group of like-minded Immortals and has so far murdered the families of three Watchers in Scotland. They are currently working their way south through the U.K.

As you can see, the Watchers now have two problems before them: the Hunters and this Immortal contingent attacking their families. I have mentioned the intended purpose of this new security force, but it will take time to get volunteers and to get them on site. I don't know what your plans are, just that you have already taken some action against the Hunters yourself. If you intend to continue doing so, I hope this information is useful to you.

PO2

"I'm not sure what the signature means," admitted Honnecker, "but he used it on his last message, as well."

"Petty Officer Second Class," said Ashton. "Our man was a noncommissioned officer in the Navy. You were right about sensing a military air about him." The Minoan swivelled his chair and crossed a leg over his knee. "This update complicates matters considerably. We need to confirm the identities of this group of murderous Immortals and stop them. If we don't, their actions will not only lead to many more unnecessary deaths but, as purely a self-defense mechanism, could drive more Watchers into the Hunters' ranks, as well."

Ashton uncrossed his leg and sat forward. "Max, would you write back to this Watcher and request any additional information he might be willing to provide? Tell him about our alliance and goals. Perhaps he can assist us some more."

"Yes, sir."

Eric Doyle, the youngest looking Immortal in the room, he was barely eighteen when he met his first death, raised his hand and spoke, "When we go out there to gather intelligence, I presume you want information on the Watchers and anything that could lead to the Hunters. That's pretty specific and is going to be hard to find among millions of normal people. Do you have any suggestions on how we could go about it?"

"I suggest you ask Watchers," replied Ashton with a grin. "They're out there. You just have to find them. Or, rather, they'll find you.

"A word of warning to you all, though. Don't harm them. We're on the same side. Convincing them to talk may be a challenge, but I have confidence in your resourcefulness."

"How will we recognize them?" asked Winter Kjellson, pushing her long, blonde hair out of her eyes as she spoke.

Ashton gestured to Honnecker with a finger as he answered. "They all have a tattoo on their inner wrist, typically the left one." Honnecker spun his laptop around to display the blue Watcher emblem. "When you see that, you know you have a Watcher. Of course, the Hunters have the same tattoo so you must be wary. However, Watchers tend to act in ones and twos and are unarmed. I would assume that Hunters travel in larger groups for safety."

James Pellier, a mirror image of his brother, Chris, clasped his hands on the table before softly clearing his throat. When he spoke, it was in a clear, confident tone.

"I have a suggestion for consideration by the group. Regarding this email General Honnecker received just now, should we offer to assist the Watchers, as able, with security at their homes? This nameless Watcher might be freer with information for us if we provide some level of service to him in return. It would also give us the potential of encountering and even engaging this radical group of Immortals. We might be able to prevent an attack or two, as well."

Jennifer Ellis, a petite Algerian, smiled from across the table. "I think that's a grand idea. We could take that in shifts when we're not out on reconnaissance."

At the head of the table, Ashton nodded. "Sounds viable. It would be a difficult undertaking for us and we would have to stress, if we did it at all, that this would not be a permanent taksing for us. Only temporary. Any thoughts from the rest of the group?"

"I'm willing to do it," said Wallace Frazier. "It should not detract from our intelligence gathering efforts, though. That should be the primary goal."

"Agreed," said Ashton.

"I don't think it would," countered Dublin. "If we only take on a certain number of homes and with proper planning of the shifts, there shouldn't be a problem."

Ashton raised a finger. "Let's not get too confident. The only known in this equation is the manpower we currently have. That's the people in this room. We know neither the disposition, composition, and strength of this radical group of Immortals nor the number of homes that will require protection. A third unknown is the number of Hunters in the area."

The Minoan continued while turning his gaze to Honnecker. "Offer our support, but on a limited basis. I don't want us to get so bogged down with that effort that we lose sight of our primary objective." Honnecker nodded, his fingers already working on the keyboard.

"Are there any other suggestions," queried Ashton, scanning the room. He despised long meetings and wanted to see this one ended. There were more important things to do than sit around a table. No one answered his question. A few even shook their heads. Ashton nodded.

"Good. Then let's get to work."


	18. We Won't Be Denied

"The fortunate ones  
To be fast and free and young  
I want to count myself among  
The fortunate ones"

"Nothin's Gonna Stand In Our Way" - Spectre General AKA Kick Axe

04 October 1999  
Birmingham, England

"Take a look at this, Michael," called O'Banian from her side of the hotel suite. She sat at the dining table, Andrew Dixon's laptop in front of her, a notepad and pens to her right, and an atlas of England's roadways and a wireless phone on her left.

"The Watchers have put up a new information section for their field agents," she continued as De Lioncourt made his way to her. "They have a list of suspected Hunters and their photographs. There is a directive to notify Watcher leadership if any of them are seen."

De Lioncourt pulled a chair over beside her and sat. O'Banian grinned and pointed at the screen. "Look at this. They even have a warning for their people. "All of these people are to be considered armed and dangerous. Do not attempt to approach them, if seen.""

De Lioncourt frowned. "It's a short list. I only see a dozen or so names and photos."

Okin and Bilsby walked over to them and stood behind O'Banian, reading over her shoulder. O'Banian scrolled down to show De Lioncourt another paragraph of information. It stated that those identified as potential Hunters were all Field Watchers and, so far, none of those named were thought to be in a position of leadership. The officers, it went on to say, were still unknown and may be higher level Watchers who, based on their greater flexibility of movement and reporting requirements, were more difficult to isolate based on recent activity alone.

"This is good intelligence for us to have," stated Bilsby. "Sadly, all of our opponents have it, as well."

O'Banian shrugged. "It matters little. Our enemies are every Watcher this computer can show us."

"That computer has been a great help to us," admitted Okin, "but so far we haven't been able to do very much with the information it's given us."

"True," concurred O'Banian with a nod, "but we have to consider our own security, too. We have ta keep movin' about or we could be found. I'm not dissatisfied with what we've done so far. I do wish it could be more, though."

"What is the latest word from the others you all know?" inquired Batakova from the couch in the sitting room, a glass of orange juice in his hand. "Some of you have made contact with others who have said they will support us? When can we expect them to actually appear?"

O'Banian's eyes widened. "I need ta call Angela and let 'er know where ta meet us."

"Who is Angela?" asked Okin.

"Angela Carson. She's a new Immortal. I told 'er I'd give her a few pointers into Immortal life. We were supposed to meet up at Skye in a week er two, but obviously can't go there."

"Is this really a time to be training a new Immortal?" De Lioncourt looked at her with concern.

"There's never a good time these days, is there, Michael?"

"I suppose," the Frenchman allowed. "Just be sure you're not recklessly endangering her for the sake of our cause."

"Let me worry about that," O'Banian rebuffed, reaching for the phone.

De Lioncourt leaned back, turning his head toward Batakova. Responding to the original question, he said, "The Blacks will in a few weeks. They're very security conscious. Once they know they can travel safely, they'll be here."

"I have two people in Paris who are willing to help us," added Okin. "I haven't given them an update since we started our little crusade. I guess I need to do that." She reached into her pocket for her cell phone.

"I, too, have several who are willing to join us, and they can likely reach out to more, as well," said MacNaughton. "I have also been remiss in communicating with them, though."

"Looks like we all need to talk with our respective allies, then," summarized Bilsby.

"Agreed," said Okin.

O'Banian hung up from her call and placed the phone back on the table. She opened her mouth to reply to the conversation of the others when an information window popped up on the computer screen.

"Oh? What 'ave we here?" she asked the room, clicking the window to open the announcement. She read quickly and frowned.

"The Watchers have just created a new security force to guard their facilities and families," she told the others. "They're calling it the Special Operations Team and they're asking for volunteers to join it. They want current employees with prior military or police experience."

De Lioncourt, Okin, and Bilsby leaned in closer to see the announcement for themselves. Bilsby chuckled as he read.

"They admit they have no equipment or training curriculum for this unit. Essentially, it's just going to be a rag-tag group of sheep going into the slaughter."

"Don't be so quick to underestimate this," warned Okin. "So far, we've faced nothing but unarmed wives and children. This, at least, brings in the element of armed opposition."

"It will still take them weeks to get themselves organized," said De Lioncourt. "We can inflict a lot of damage in that time. After that, with proper surveillance of our targets and good planning, we can still take them down if we maintain the element of surprise."

"That is a good thought, Michael," admitted Bilsby. "I do think, however, we should upgrade our own equipment before we make our next hit. We've gone too long with just our own assortment of swords and guns. We need something better."

"Do you have a suggestion?" asked O'Banian. "And more importantly, a source for this equipment?"

Bilsby grinned from behind her. "I would not have made the statement otherwise. I have already reached out to those who can provide us with what we require."

"Do I want to know who these people are?" asked Okin, a touch of a frown on her lips.

Bilsby chuckled again. "No, my dear. It's best if you don't. Let me take care of those details."

xxxxxxxxxx

The city of Birmingham was nothing at all like Dasmius Mikal's original home in the mountains of Transylvania. Of course, Transylvania did not exist anymore. It was Romania now. He could not so much blame one location or another for the difference, however. It had been over nine hundred years since he had first knowingly gazed at those Carpathian heights. He felt a pang of homesickness, though. England just did not compare to Romania, in his mind. It was simply too flat.

"When this affair is over," he muttered to himself as he knocked on the hotel suite's door, "I shall go back home and stay for a while. A century is too long to be away."

He knew the occupants of the suite, in addition to his knock, were aware of his presence. They would have felt his approach long before now. The knock was a mere courtesy. He waited.

The door opened to reveal a petite Arab woman. Mikal held his arms out to show he held no weapon. He grinned at her and spoke in what he hoped was his most charming tone.

"Good morning, my name is Dasmius Mikal. I am a colleague of James MacNaughton. He said I could meet him here."

The woman eyed him with a hint of suspicion. Mikal took no offense. Such was the way of Immortals, always looking for the danger from another of their kind. Then the expression transformed into a welcoming smile. She held out her hand.

"Hello, Dasmius. I am Ruth Okin." They shook. "Please come in."

The size of the suite was not what surprised Mikal. Such luxury was very much the style of James MacNaughton. It was the number of other Immortals in the place that took him off guard. They were all standing and eyeing him with assorted gazes, some of wariness, some of happiness. Mikal could not resist commenting.

"I did not expect there to be so many of you."

Okin laughed. "If you call nine "many" then I guess it would be a bit of a shock."

Mikal allowed himself another grin. "James mentioned himself and "a few friends" needing some assistance. I thought he meant two or three, not nine."

"Well, we're full o' surprises here, Mr. Mikal," stated another voice. This came from the other woman in the room, an equally small redhead. She stepped forward and regarded Mikal with the eye of one appraising a horse. After a moment under that stern gaze, she relaxed and also offered her hand. "Siobhan O'Banian," she said by way of introduction.

"It is a pleasure to meet two beautiful ladies in so short a time," replied Mikal, taking her hand.

O'Banian reddened slightly, a smile touching her lips. "You're very kind. An' thank you for comin' here. We could certainly use your help."

"And just what is it that needs to be done?" Mikal inquired. He looked at MacNaughton as he asked the question. "James was not very forthcoming with information on the phone."

"Well, first," answered MacNaughton, "please sit and I'll tell you."

Mikal complied and awaited his friend's explanation. What he heard was utterly mind blowing. And he could not resist a small grin as the Scotsman continued to talk. Twenty minutes later when MacNaughton had finished his detailed inbrief, Dasmius Mikal laughed aloud and smiled.

"I must say to you all that I have been quite bored these last several years. There has been nothing that really seemed like a good way to spend my time. But this, the dismantling of a global organization, seems like just the sort of ambitious scheme I have unknowingly been dreaming of finding for so long. I will happily aid you in whatever manner I can."

"Good," replied O'Banian. "We're hitting another site in a few days. You can join us for that."

xxxxxxxxxx

05 October 1999  
Edinburgh, Scotland

Alan Ottenbreit reopened the call for volunteers for the new Special Operations Team and read through it completely twice. He closed the announcement and sat back, staring at his computer screen in silence. The recent setback in Seattle and all of its implications were still fresh in his mind. Now, he had this new development, as well. What, if anything, did he need to do in reaction to it?

Lighting a cigarette, he let his thoughts run free. It was only natural that his enemies would respond somehow especially in light of the latest attacks on Watcher families. He had to admit to himself that he had not expected a reaction such as this. Given the ill-equipped and untrained nature of the new unit, at least for now, Ottenbreit chose to disregard this new threat for the moment. He already had something that, he knew, would have them staggering about breathless in just a few months. Yes, he could afford to wait when it came to this new _special_ team.

The attacks on Watcher families, however, was a variable neither he nor any of his officers had considered. He would absolutely have to ponder this little nugget. Ottenbreit stubbed out his cigarette and pulled a cigar from his desk drawer. He would need something more substantial for this one. Setting flame to tobacco, he smiled through the smoke. The Watchers suspected Siobhan O'Banian to be the impetus behind the attacks. Ottenbreit nodded. That was reasonable given her background and the failed attempt against her several weeks ago. But what to do about it?

Ottenbreit saw two potential options. The first, naturally, was to track down O'Banian and kill her as quickly as possible. The second, some might say, was more controversial. He could let her continue to operate…at least for a while. Of course, her actions would take the lives of Watchers and their families, but Ottenbreit saw the other side of this. She would simultaneously keep the Watchers distracted and show those Watchers who were previously on the fence about the Immortal threat just how true it was. Just how many Watchers would switch to his cause as a result? Ottenbreit could only guess.

He smiled again and puffed on his cigar. After some thought, the decision made itself. Ottenbreit would let the Irish spitfire continue to wreak havoc among the Watchers. All the while, he would patiently await the arrival of new recruits into the Hunter ranks. And, once she had outlived her usefulness, Siobhan O'Banian's pretty little head could be separated from her shoulders anytime he wished.

xxxxxxxxxx

06 October 1999  
Rednal, England

"Emily, over here." Michal Batakova waved, easing Emily Lefitte's search for another Immortal among the mid-morning crowd. Batakova smiled as his friend approached.

"My God, Emily, are you ever going to take my advice and put on some weight? You're an absolute stick."

LeFitte grinned and made a light-hearted attempt to slap the man. It was true that she was very skinny; she barely tipped the scales at fifty-four kilograms. Her height, at one hundred seventy-five centimeters, only accentuated her slenderness.

"I'm still a bit taller than you, though, Michal, so at least there's that."

"Well, I can't win them all." Batakova gestured toward an empty seat at the cafe table where he'd been waiting. "Please," he said, "sit."

"So tell me about this little group you've joined," LeFitte urged him. "I'm intrigued."

Batakova waited until he had placed an order for coffee before answering her. His face was grave when he did so.

"You've heard, at least in rumor, I suspect, about the attacks on Immortals lately?"

"Yes," she replied, nodding.

"Well, it's all being done by an organized group of mortals called Watchers. They know about our existence and have been observing us for a long time. Now, they have decided to start eliminating us one by one."

LeFitte paled as he continued. "And it's in the worst possible way. They come for us in numbers and attack even in places we think is safe, like holy ground. They use firearms. After they've gunned us down, they take our heads, but only when there are no other Immortals present."

"Oh, God," gasped LeFitte. "There would be no Quickening. Everything we are is lost."

"Exactly," confirmed Batakova. He paused as the coffee was served. Picking up his cup, he took a small sip. "This has been going on for weeks, maybe even months. I'm not sure. All I do know is there is now a group of us who are doing something about it."

"And what is that?" asked LeFitte.

"We have captured a Watcher computer and have inside information on everything about them. We're destroying all of them. I'll admit we're going to somewhat of an extreme, but I can see no other choice given how they're treating us."

"What sort of extreme?"

"We're not only killing the Watchers. We're eliminating everyone connected to them. Their families."

LeFitte gasped again. "Their entire families?"

Batakova nodded. "Yes. Everyone. Wives, husbands, children, everyone. We've made six raids so far and have another one planned in a few days. We hope that by doing this we can bring down the entire organization. Personally, I think this can be done without killing them all. Some of the others believe otherwise. Regardless, the chaos caused by our actions is forcing the Watchers to react in a disorderly fashion and this can't but help lead to their downfall. When they finally crumble, the threat from their attacks will end, as well."

"And you called me because you want me to join you?" LeFitte sipped from her own coffee, her eyes distant as she spoke.

"Yes, if you are willing."

LeFitte did not answer for several seconds. She continued to drink her coffee and stare at the passersby. Batakova did not press her. She had to come to the decision on her own. At last, she set her cup back on its saucer and looked into his eyes.

"I don't like the idea of a bunch of mortals taking our heads. That's a given. Our lives are enough of a danger without some madcap mortals adding to it. I also don't particularly care for the notion of going after the families of these Watchers. Something has to be done, sure, but I'm not sure that killing wives and kids is the right thing.

"I'm willing to help you, Michal, but I'm not one hundred percent into this. I will offer my assistance, but the moment there is a way we can possibly fight these people more directly - meaning not attacking families - then I am going to opt for that approach. Understood?"

Batakova smiled. "That is perfectly reasonable," he affirmed. "And exactly what I hoped you would say, my dear Emily." Batakova finished his coffee and placed a few notes under the saucer. He stood and held out his hand to her.

"Now, please come with me and let me introduce you to the rest of the group."

xxxxxxxxxx

09 October 1999  
Bromsgrove, England

"Any sign of this special operations team we've heard about?" asked De Lioncourt.

"Nothing," replied Razumov. "The house is wide open. I've been watching it for twelve hours now. I've seen no one but the wife and daughter. I've even made a circumference of the perimeter. If there is anyone else, they're well hidden."

"Alright, then," said O'Banian. "We go for it." She smiled. "This one is a long time in coming. This is the Hardley residence. This is the family of Roy Hardley, one of the bastards that attacked me at Skye."

Bilsby let out a soft chuckle. "You've been looking forward to this for quite some time, I'd imagine."

"Yer damn right, I have," confirmed O'Banian. She glanced at her slightly larger faction and nodded to them. "Same basic plan as the others," she said. "Ruth, Aaron, you take security at the back of the house. Marton, Michal, you take the front. The rest of us go inside."

Dusk had just given way to darkness at 24 Chapel Street. The large house, with its two-car garage, five white Roman columns, and expansive bay window, was quite beautiful. O'Banian could even see the Hardley's twelve-year old daughter, Paula, lounging in that bay window, her eyes cast out as if expectantly awaiting the return of her father. Hardley's wife, Jean, even approached the girl and made some comment. The child laughed and said something back to her mother before returning to her vigil.

_Too bad,_ thought O'Banian. _Neither you nor Mummy dearest 'll be seein' 'im anytime soon. Unless there is an afterlife._

The seven Council members advanced on the house from the north along the garage side. The daughter would not be able to see them from this angle. They stacked up in a line by the front door. O'Banian reached out and carefully turned the door knob. It was locked. She motioned for MacNaughton, by far one of the largest of them, and pointed at the door. He nodded. As the Scotsman prepared to breach the door, the other six Council members pulled by the charging handles on the 9mm Heckler & Koch Machine Pistols that Bilsby had acquired for them. Each of the weapons were fitted with integral suppressors to reduce the sounds of their firing.

MacNaughton roared as he ran toward the door, slamming his shoulder into it at full speed. The door, having been made more for aesthetics than security, splintered at the door knob and opened inward. MacNaughton's inertia drove him into the house. O'Banian and the others followed right behind him. O'Banian, Penn, and Bilsby curved off to the right toward the sitting room. The other three fanned out through the house in search of other occupants.

The screams of Jean and Paula Hardley met O'Banian's ears as she entered the sitting room. The Irish woman made her way toward Paula Hardley. With her weapon trained on her, she dragged the still shrieking girl from the bay window onto the floor. Turning, she saw that Penn and Bilsby had brought Jean Hardley to her knees.

"Quiet," shouted O'Banian. "Both of you." She pushed the barrel of her submachine gun into the back of Paula's head for emphasis. "Or the girl gets it first and then you, Mummy, dear."

Both Hardleys ceased their screaming, Paula being reduced to low whimpering. O'Banian grinned. She waited as Mikal and LeFitte joined them in the room.

"There's no one else here," reported Mikal.

"Where's Michael?" asked O'Banian.

"He's checking out a home office on the second floor," replied LeFitte. "He'll be down soon."

O'Banian nodded. Her hard eyes focused on Jean Hardley. She grinned again, though there was no warmth in it.

"Now, Mummy, dear, tell me about the sort of work your husband does."

"My husband?" repeated Jean Hardley. "What does this have to do with him?"

O'Banian adjusted her MP5 and pulled the trigger. Three 9mm rounds drilled into Paula Hardley's right shoulder blade. The girl screeched and fell to the floor. Jean's mouth fell open in horror as she dashed forward to tend to her injured daughter.

"Oh, God," Jean cried involuntarily. In seconds, she was covered in the blood of her convulsing child. She held the girl close, trying to soothe her.

"I'm asking the questions here, bitch," stated O'Banian cooly. "Now, tell the bitchlette to quiet down or the next burst goes in her head."

Jean whispered into her daughter's ear for several seconds. After a while, she succeeded in lowering the volume of Paula's sobs.

"Now," said O'Banian, "I'll say it again. Tell me about hubby and what he does for a living."

"My husband is a historian," replied Jean, the high pitch of her voice hinting at her anxiety. "He does research and writes reports. He even has an office upstairs where he does a lot of his work. Sometimes he hangs out with a clique of other historians in the area. It's almost like a fraternity."

"So you know nothing about his other activities?" O'Banian queried further.

"What do you mean?" Jean asked her. O'Banian shifted her MP5 toward Paula again. Jean dove over her daughter, shielding her with her own body. "No, please, no." She took a breath. "No, I don't know what you mean. He's been away for a few weeks on research. That's all I know."

De Lioncourt entered the room, a laptop computer and address book under his arm. O'Banian gestured towards the computer with her head. "You wouldn't happen to know how to get into that little box there, would you, Jean?"

"Roy took the password off of it. He said there was no need for one if he was the only person using it and it never left the house."

"Even better," commented O'Banian. "So, about this research trip ol' Roy went on, did he happen to say what he was gonna be doin' on it?"

Confusion set upon Jean's face. "No," she answered. "He's a historian. I presume he'd be reading a bunch of old documents or looking at artifacts."

"So nothin' at all about burnin' down people's homes and tryin' ta shoot them as they come out?"

"What? I mean, no. Absolutely not. He'd never do such a thing."

"Oh, Mummy, dear, how little you actually knew about yer husband. You should know that he was a murderer an' he wanted nothin' more than to kill off a group of people he thought shouldn't exist."

Jean Hardley sat back on her knees, her eyes wide. "That's impossible. That's not the Roy I know."

"Believe what ya like," said O'Banian. "I jus' wanted ya to know the truth before ya joined him." O'Banian turned her back on the two and walked away.

"Before I…?" A three-round burst from Bilsby and Penn's weapons cut off the housewife's question before it was finished. They each fired a second burst into Paula Hardley before the girl had a chance to scream again.

xxxxxxxxxx

10 October 1999  
Paris, France

Sather sat in his new Parisian apartment, his unpacking finally complete. He did not have much in the way of possessions so he had been able to do it all in a day. The real hassle had been furnishing the damn place so he had a place to put his meager belongings. That had proven to be a headache all its own. He had made a deal with the landlord of this apartment complex. The man could keep whatever furniture - or toss it, Sather didn't care - whenever Sather finally left Paris. That would be one less hassle in the future. For now, though, the place was fully furnished and ready for living.

Sipping an Old Fashioned in a chilled tumbler, Sather turned on his computer and logged into the Watcher network. Three days was a long time to be out of touch with events. Now, before he went into his new office tomorrow, he needed to catch up on what was happening. He regretted that decision immediately.

"Well, shit and goddamn," he muttered, taking another pull from his Old Fashioned.

As was his habit, he had gone straight to the most recent field reports of the Watchers in Europe. He had avoided reading, for now anyway, the news of those Immortals killed over the last week, and gone immediately into the other reports. The most recent was the update regarding the murder of the Hardley family. There were even photographs to go along with the grisly report. Sather didn't look at them. He had seen such before. He didn't need to be reminded what horrid things bullets did to bodies.

"Shit, goddamn, and double fuck," he swore, reading onward. Tomorrow was not going to be a good day at all, first day at a new job or not.


	19. Riders On The Storm

"There's a killer on the road  
His brain is squirming like a toad  
Take a long holiday  
Let your children play  
If you give this man a ride  
Sweet family will die  
Killer on the road, yeah."

"Riders on the Storm" - The Doors

12 October 1999  
Paris, France

Devon Sather appraised the young woman before him carefully. She was of average height, about one hundred sixty-six centimeters or so, meaning she was much shorter than he. Possessing a somewhat rounded face, she was still quite fit and not at all overweight, perhaps fifty-seven kilos, at best, if he put her on a scale. For some reason, he saw her as the type that spent a lot of time on a bicycle. He tried not to spend too much time looking at her legs to confirm that fact. She also appeared, at least to him, far too bright to be a mere secretary. So just who was she? Finally, he had to ask.

_"Et tu es?"_ (And you are?) he asked in French.

The young woman looked at him with an air of confusion. Responding in clear, but accented, English, she said, "I'm sorry, Director, but the language of Watcher Headquarters is English even though we are in Paris. I'm sorry. I don't speak French very well yet. I just moved here a few days ago."

Sather blushed. "I'm sorry. I asked who you were."

The woman smiled. "I'm Rebecca Capella. I'm your assistant."

Sather frowned, regarding her again. "Forgive my asking this, but how old are you?"

"Twenty-six, the same as you," she replied, still smiling.

"And your accent, German?"

"Austrian, actually."

"Forgive me again."

"It's alright. Same language. Well, almost. There are a few quirky differences."

"And how long have you been a Watcher?" he asked her.

"I just finished the Academy a month ago. This is my first assignment."

Sather blinked, taking a step back. "And what did you do before that?"

"I was in university working on my doctorates."

Another blink. "Doctorates? As in plural?"

"Yes." She was matter-of-fact about it. "Biochemistry and genetics."

Sather put his palms together, bringing the tips under his chin. "Forgive me again," he said, "especially for the language I'm about to use. It's not meant as an offense to you, just expressing my confusion, but why the fuck is a young woman with two , especially in biochemistry and genetics, being assigned to me as my assistant? Why is she even a Watcher in the first place and not in a university lab doing research or working as a professor?"

Capella grinned again. "It's a family tradition to be in the Watchers. We have a man here who has a doctorate in psychology and specializes in analyzing the particular disorders unique to Immortal life. I thought I could do something similar in my fields. As far as working for you, I have to start somewhere, don't I? I can't just walk into a lab right away. The Watchers don't even have a research department of that type. Not yet, anyway."

Sather took another step back and dropped his hands. He found himself grinning now. "That's very realistic of you, Rebecca. It's going to be difficult to remain current in your fields and assist me with my work at the same time. I hope you know that from the start."

Capella laughed. "That won't be much of a problem. I don't date much and I only have two plants and a fish to keep me company at home. There are no distractions to keep me from doing all the necessary readings to stay current. The only question is how often I will be there to do them."

"Well," added Sather truthfully, "since this is the first day this post has actually truly existed, that remains to be seen, doesn't it? I tend to be a work-a-holic and do a lot myself. I think I learned my lesson about that while a Regional Director, though. It almost killed me."

Capella's eyes widened in horror. "Almost killed you? That's terrible!"

Laughing, Sather raised his hands, palms out. "No, no. It's an exaggeration. Sarcasm. I was joking."

Capella calmed instantly. "Oh, I'm so glad. But I now see what my friends were telling me about American humor. It is very different from ours."

"Yeah, that is one thing I'm still learning since I started working in Europe," admitted Sather, "and I've been here for three years. You'd think I'd have picked up on a little bit of the subtleties by now."

Capella grinned. "Not so much?" she asked.

Sather shook his head. "Nope. It's just not working. I'm still as braggadocious as ever. I hope you can deal with that."

"If I can deal with a Bioinorganic Chemistry professor who kept a consistent monotone throughout the entire semester and not fall asleep, I think I can adjust to your humor and not be too shocked. …After an adjustment period."

Sather smiled at her and held out his hand. "Deal." She shook his hand. "Shall we get to work?" he asked.

"Let's," she replied.

Sather's office was already set up for him, though in a generic fashion. This suited him fine. There was little about it he would change. He would bring a few items over the next few days, a cot, a blanket, a change of clothes, a bottle of whiskey, and a few personal protection items that he officially should not own as a European resident, but little else. He did not believe in "I Love Me" walls and other sorts of nonsense. In his mind, what one did in the past mattered little compared to what could be done now. Resting on laurels was pointless.

Capella, being an assistant rather than a secretary, had an office adjacent to his. The open desk in the lobby in which they had held their conversation would be filled by another person later on that morning. Sather grinned and gave himself a mental kick. He should have known that Capella was not a secretary when he arrived. Secretaries don't typically arrive at work at six thirty in the morning; they show up at eight thirty or nine. He was still surprised by Capella's early arrival, though.

Sather switched on his computer and spent the first thirty minutes configuring all of the standard programs to work the way he wanted. He even added a few shortcut instructions so they would load automatically when he booted the machine up each morning. Once everything was to his liking, he went to his email manager and let this vast assortment of messages download into his inbox. He normally had a series of rules set up to pre-sort the messages into folders by topic or keyword, but all that was for the old job. He would have to set up a new set of rules for this position, learning as he went. The status bar said it would take another three minutes to download all the mail even with the high speed connection. He changed windows to the Watcher database and switched to the director message board.

"Holy shit!" he exclaimed loudly.

"What is it?" asked Capella from next door.

"Come on over," he said. Without waiting for her arrival, he continued, "I just loaded the director message board and then opened the section I built to track applications for the Special Operations Team." Capella came through the doorway. "There are just under fourteen hundred volunteers worldwide for the team since the announcement went out a week ago."

Capella stopped in mid-step, her jaw dropping. "Oh, my goodness," she said softly.

"Right!" affirmed Sather. "So there's our first item of business. "What the hell are we going to do with all of these people? How are we going to consolidate and use them to improve the situation here? Do we even have a budget or a staff for this?"

"We have a meeting with the EDOW at ten o'clock to discuss those things. It was on my list of things to tell you this morning."

"Well, then, by God, Rebecca, pull up a chair and let's start brainstorming a list of all the things we need for this team."

xxxxxxxxxx

The list was long and varied in its topics. It included everything from financial requirements to logistics to the types of weapons and body armor Sather wanted the team to use. There was a section on the training curriculum he wanted to implement and where he wanted the training to be conducted. This was supplemented by some ideas Sather had already written out earlier and added on as additional reading. Finally, he had a list of names, people he wanted transferred over to his section in order to build the Special Operations Team into a more professional unit.

Sitting in a small conference room with Michael Walker, Sather explained each of these items to the EDOW. Walker held the handwritten list in his left hand and made his own notes on a separate pad with his right. Thus far, he had agreed with all of the requests.

"What's with this bit here?" he asked. "You wrote Special Operations Team and then lined through it. What's that about?"

Sather smirked at the EDOW. "You're a Brit, Mike. Think about it in terms of an acronym." Walker added his own smirk before Sather could supply his next thought. "How much respect are we going to get if we're known around here as the SOTs? People will say we're a bunch of drunks. So I want to change the name before anyone gets too used to what we have now."

"Do you have anything in mind?"

"How about Guardians?" Sather suggested.

"Sounds somewhat Roman-esque, but it could work, I suppose."

"Well, since they're all going to be Watchers first, you could call them Watcher-Guardians officially and go with Guardians, for short, if you want.

"I like that," said Walker. "Let's go with that one."

"And the money and people I need?" queried Sather.

"Like I said last week, you can have anyone you want. Just find replacements. As far as money, for the moment, you have a blank check. I'll send the official notice to the accounting department today. Anything you want is approved. No questions asked. I'll even have them issue a series of credit cards to you and a few other people of your choosing. Just turn in the receipts.

You've got six names on this list. I see Patrick Bremmen, Richard Emerson, Matias Garcia, Ramesh Laghari, Bryan Green, and Jonathan Matzel. What are your plans for them?"

"Simple," said Sather. "Think of it just like filling up the primary staff of a military unit or a large company. You need experts to manage each specialty area. Bremen is a human resources guy and can effectively manage the huge influx of people who have volunteered for the Guardians, given some people of his own, of course. Green is one of the best logisticians I have ever seen and I'm going to need that kind of skill to equip these guys. Emerson is almost as good as Green and will be a great help to him. Matzel was an Army Ranger, just like his brother, and will be quite the asset in developing and conducting training. Laghari was an intelligence officer in the British Army before he became a Watcher; I could use his abilities here. Lastly, Garcia is the best communications guy I have seen outside of the SEAL teams. I definitely want him as the guy selecting and managing our commo network."

Walker sat back and smiled. "You've practiced this, haven't you?"

"I put some thought into it," Sather admitted. "I didn't stand in front of a mirror, but I did think of a bullet point for each of them."

"Well, it worked. You've got them. And this last part?"

"Since we have so many people," Sather continued. "I want to use some of them as we originally intended, securing certain facilities, at-risk families, and other high-risk individuals. The rest, I want to set aside and send through an ad-hoc training course, at least get some modicum of a training regimen pounded into them. We can then rotate the rest through the course and improve the training as we go."

"And, just out of curiosity, how do you plan to do the training? Will it be from internal assets - the volunteers themselves - or will you be looking for outside expertise?"

"A mixture of the two," Sather said right away. "I know, once I and Matzel have gone through the list, that we will find some who are qualified to serve as trainers, but not for everything we will need. I already have a rough curriculum, which you've seen in this addendum, and we'll need some people to fill the gaps. There will be plenty of retired police and military people out there looking to make some money and who will be willing to keep their mouths shut in exchange. With an intelligence organization like ours, finding them shouldn't be much of an issue."

Walker nodded. "Considering that we already have contacts in those worlds anyway, you can just reach out to them."

"Wait? What? We do?" Sather leaned back in his seat and stared at the EDOW. "Since when?"

Walker smiled. "Since always, Devon. "The Watchers actually funnel revenue from a number of sources. There is an entire branch of the Watchers - and I'm not talking about the normal accounting department - devoted to special financial matters, charged with tracking known Immortals' assets, preparing for sudden acquisitions, and a number of other things. This branch operates almost completely independently of the rest of the Watcher Organization. They have their own field agents, even their own Director of Operations, who answers solely to me.

"The main source of funds for the Watchers actually comes from watched Immortals. You see, Immortals tend to live for a while, and thereby tend to amass a good deal of money. They also tend to lead relatively solitary lives. Usually, if any will at all is made out, it is in fact a dummy meant to transfer assets to themselves under a new alias. The Watcher Financial Department's field agents are less concerned with an Immortal's life happenings as they are with learning of and tracking their assets. In the event of an Immortal's decapitation, if there is in fact no beneficiary, the WFD moves in to appropriate said assets using the correct passwords and account numbers learned by watching said Immortal during their lifetime.

"The second most lucrative source of income for the Watchers is a bit more conventional. The nature of the Watchers mission leads them quite often to learning certain things that others would consider valuable. You could call it intelligence analysis. There is indeed a branch within the WFD whose sole purpose it to sift through the vast amounts of information gathered by the various field agents and determine what might or might not be sold to whom without jeopardizing the Watchers, the Immortals, or greatly upsetting the current balance of power within the mortal world.

"The most important thing to remember about the Watchers is that we are a worldwide organization. We have contracts through dummy personalities and companies with every military and government in the world for various intelligence and reconnaissance services. This may make us sound like the ultimate double agents until you consider that the organization has no nationality to betray. We are like a functional, clandestine United Nations, representing the Immortal activity of the entire world.

"Then, of course, there are private contributions from the more wealthy personnel and supporters, as well as the usual dummy fund raising efforts, though these contribute a very small amount indeed compared to the other methods mentioned.

"That is one of the little factoids you will learn as a member of my staff. It's one of those prized bits of information that is reserved only for a few."

"Holy shit!" remarked Sather. "I did wonder how the Watchers made money, but I didn't know this." Walker laughed aloud. "I assumed Immortals' assets were claimed by the governments of the countries in which they died."

"Now, wouldn't that be a monumental waste?" asked Walker. "No, we step in as their apparent heirs and claim the assets for ourselves."

"It's a bit ghoulish, don't you think?"

"It's a lot better than letting a bunch of bureaucrats waste it on steak dinners and prostitutes. At least we pay our people and try to keep them equipped to succeed out in the field."

"I'll give you that," said Sather. "I didn't see the hundred-year old bottle of Scotch and three escorts I expected as a welcome present when I arrived. The office was a bit smaller than expected, too. There's no private john in it and no way I can install a sex swing in there."

Walker laughed again as Capella blushed at Sather's remark. "Sorry about that, Dev. I'm afraid I'm the only one with a private loo. As far as the swing, you can have such toys at home. Besides, I know your work ethic. You don't do such things at the office.

"As far as the ghoulish nature of the practice, I reiterate that it's much better that we benefit then the politicians. We are the ones that know of the Immortals and actively study them. It's only right that, as they die in the way they normally do - certainly not as they have these last many weeks - that we step in and collect what they have left behind."

"I'll bet your collections and accounting boys have been busy since August, then," added Sather dryly.

"Sadly, yes. It has been a boon for us. That is partially the reason I can be so free with the checkbook for you. It won't last forever, though. Once you are successful in stopping these Hunters and things are back to normal, we will have to return to a more fiscally responsible mindset ourselves. Right now we have an emergency."

"I'm on it, boss. I think that covers it all. I think it's time Ms. Capella and I got back to work."

"Alright, Dev. Thank you very much. I'll let accounting know what has been decided just now."

xxxxxxxxxx

13 October 1999  
Sagres, Portugal

Alyssa Cordeiro was still in Sagres despite her promise to leave it nearly two weeks ago. She told herself it was because it took so long to pack her things. She was fibbing to herself and she knew it. It was really because she was reluctant to leave the cute little house she had found right on a cliff overlooking the ocean.

_Couldn't Jonny be overreacting? He's done so before. He's never said that crazy mortals were crawling all over the continent, but he has said weird things in the past. Couldn't I just stay here and be perfectly safe?_

She needed to talk to someone about it. Someone nearby. She had a good friend, her old mentor and sometimes lover, Jabari Abreu, who resided only a few minutes away. He was so close to her house, in fact, that she could walk there. She was glad for that. She could use the time in the cool night air to think. As a precaution, though, she did attach her backup weapon, a World War Two Hungarian bayonet, to her belt and hid it beneath her light jacket before she left. The light reflected off the hilt of her Messerfeder sword as it sat in its corner when she closed the door and locked it.

_God, I wish I had a gun,_ she thought. If Jonny is right, it would be a good thing to have right now. _I'll have to talk to Jonny or David about getting one and ask how they keep theirs from being discovered by the European authorities._

Owning a handgun or other firearm in Portugal was legal for hunting, target shooting, pest control, and collecting. Self defense was not considered a legal reason for owning one, though. The problem Cordeiro would face was her age, or her apparent age, at least. Physically, she was fifteen. With the right clothing, hair style, and make up, she could pass for twenty or twenty-one. The minimum age for handgun ownership, assuming one could get and keep a Firearms Owners License, of course, was twenty-four. She could get such a license for other guns if she claimed to be eighteen, but rifles and shotguns were much harder to conceal and, naturally, all such things were impossible to explain if she were caught with them on the street.

Cordeiro strolled southeast down the N268 road, wondering how Abreu would react to a visitor appearing at his door, without a call in advance, no less, to ask him questions. Would he send her away or welcome her inside? Would he perhaps welcome her further into the house than just the sitting room? Cordeiro grinned. It would not be the first time, if he did.

True, she and Jonny Fairbanks were in an ongoing relationship but they both knew perfectly well that neither of them were going to remain celibate when they were apart from each other. Cordeiro was aware of Fairbanks' habit of sleeping with other girls and women as was he with her dalliances with other men and boys. When her charming boyfriend had once expressed concern over this fact some decades ago, Cordeiro had even given him a perfectly good explanation recently expressed in song: "If you can't be with the one you love, honey, love the one you're with." When the two of them were together, they were intensely loyal to each other; when they were not, they were free to do as they saw fit. They still considered themselves a couple, though. Cordeiro decided, if Abreu was open to the idea, she would be staying with him tonight.

The thought made her grin blossom into a full smile as she turned left onto the Rua de Tonel. She was taking the long way to Abreu's place, she knew. She could just as easily cut through a few yards and make it there in less time, but she was enjoying the walk. Even so, she would be there in another hundred meters more anyway. She glanced at the Tonel Apartments as she took another left turn and continued up the final road that would take him to Abreu's villa.

This road was not paved. It was composed of packed sand with some loose gravel. There was a small line of grass growing down the center of the road. Thick bushels of _cana palustre_ \- marsh cane - grew to the side of the road, giving it even more of a shadow under the dim light of the waxing crescent moon.

Cordeiro stopped at the curve of the road, her call to Abreu frozen in her throat. A car was parked near the gate. She had almost bumped into it in the darkness. Her eyes moved from the vehicle to the white wall encircling the villa. It was not unlike Abreu to have visitors. She was just somewhat reluctant to disturb him if he did. She tapped her fingers on the hood of the car, thinking.

Two thoughts came to her mind as she splayed her hand across the hood. The first was the engine was still warm; the vehicle had just arrived recently. The second was she should have felt Abreu's presence by now, and he hers, from this distance. She had felt nothing. Pulling her hand back, she eased into the shadows and watched the villa from the blackness. Her eyes went automatically to the rooftop. It was Abreu's habit on such clear nights to go to the roof to gaze at the stars, amateur astronomer that he was.

Seconds later, she saw movements, more like hazy shadows really, up there. Rather than focusing on the sight, she darted her eyes around the area where she had seen it. She had learned from David Ashton of a light-sensitive receptor protein in the eyes called rhodopsin - or visual purple - which aided in night vision, but only lasted a short time. Focusing on an object caused the protein to quickly photobleach - or wear out - and take several minutes to come back. Due to the late hour, it was nearly ten o'clock, she had been walking in near darkness for some time. The technique worked. She could make out three figures coming quickly down the stairs. Cordeiro pulled herself further back into the cane.

The three shadows switched on flashlights as they descended. Cordeiro tried to shut one eye to protect the night vision in it, but feared she was too late. Even the slightest additional light was enough to bleach out rhodopsin significantly. She kept the eye closed anyway, covering it with a hand just to be sure. The shadows had reached their vehicle and two of them were opening a door to get inside. The one in the front started it up while the third figure jogged around to enter from the other side. Cordeiro could see the suggestion of some sort of short, bladed weapon in the man's hand. She shuddered and tried to keep still, suppressing a gasp.

As soon as the third man's door had shut, the car's headlights came on and the vehicle began to move forward. Cordeiro watched it crawl down the road, slowly picking up speed. She leaned carefully out of the cane to peer at it as it rounded the curve. It stopped briefly at the end of the road and turned right. She shuddered again, following the headlights with her open eye. Her fears were confirmed when the car turned right again onto the N268.

_They're going to my house. Oh, God._

Taking a deep breath in an attempt to retain her calm, she stepped from the cane onto the dirt road. She couldn't go back home. Not right now. And she couldn't wander the streets in search of a taxi to aid her escape. She went to the only place she hoped would be remotely safe, at least for now, into Abreu's villa. She prayed softly under her breath that they would not return here in search for her.

Abreu never locked his doors. She went into the ground floor. She would not go to the roof. She knew what she would find there and she did not want her last image of Jabari Abreu to be his butchered remains. She would keep the happier thoughts of him in her mind instead. She searched his place quickly, knowing where he kept his guns, and loaded two of his automatic pistols, two .45s, before pouring a glass of Abreu's favorite wine and raising it in a silent toast to her lost friend. When daylight came, she would find a ride to Faro where she had a small apartment already on lease under another name. It would do as a hiding place. She would send Fairbanks the message he wanted from there. Tonight, she would hide and try to stay alive.

xxxxxxxxxx

14 October 1999  
Andelys, France  
_Collège Nationalisé Roger Gaudeau_ (Roger Gaudeau Middle School)

While he was anxious to get home and go for a run to burn off some of his excess energy, Benoît Charpentier was not going to neglect the chance to spend some time with his friends, either. When classes finally let out at four thirty, he chose to hang out at the school for another thirty minutes or so with some of the other teens - just chatting, laughing, and fooling around as boys do - until the teachers finally shooed them away. The boys meandered off their separate ways, still laughing, and waved to each other. Benoît turned toward his own home, ready to walk the three hundred meters as he always did. It would be a good stretch before his run anyway. Running a hand through his shoulder-length black hair, he set off at an easy trot.

The thirteen-year old grinned to himself. The temperature, a slightly chilled thirteen degrees centigrade (55℉), was a little low for walking, but it would be perfect once he came back outside and starting on his ten-kilometer run. The cool air would feel magnificent then. He thought about breaking into a brisk jog down Rue Raymond Phelip but decided against it. With the weight of the backpack strapped to his back and the jostling of the books inside it, he would only cause strain to his back. Why do that and risk a potential strain just before he started his exercise? He could wait the four minutes it would take him to get home. 61 Rue Maréchal Leclerc was not far away and was even visible from where he was now. All he had to do was change clothes once he reached the house and then he'd be back on the street and off he'd go.

It was at the intersection with the Avenue de la République where Rue Raymond Phelip became Rue de Marville that Benoît's grin faded. Four men, two on either side, closed in on him. Benoît tried to keep walking, a little faster now, but two more men got out of a car parked in front of him and stood in his path. Benoît stopped and regarded them with suspicion.

_"Puis-je vous aider, messieurs?" _(May I help you, gentlemen?) he asked, trying to sound polite while also keeping the nervousness out of his voice.

One of the men in front nodded. In a quiet voice, he replied, _"Oui, vous pouvez venir avec nous tranquillement." _(Yes, you can come with us quietly.)

Benoît frowned. He couldn't go with these men. He knew that. Nothing good could possibly come from that. He glanced about him. They had surrounded him. He knew he couldn't fight them off. He wasn't very tall; he was short even for his age. He was fit, but he doubted he could outrun them, either. He decided his only hope was to try talking his way out of the situation.

_"Je ne peux pas…" _(I can't…) he began, but got no further.

The man who had spoken earlier shook his head and interrupted him. _"Nous avons quatre autres hommes chez vous. Si vous ne venez pas avec nous maintenant, nous tuerons vos parents et votre sœur." _(We have four more men in your house. If you don't come with us now, we will kill both your parents and your sister.)

Benoît's blue eyes went wide. He paled and his shoulders wilted. The boy nodded and allowed the other men to approach him. One of them slipped the pack from his shoulders and tossed it aside. Another took his arm and guided him almost gently toward a waiting car. The engine was already running. Benoît wondered why he had not noticed that before. A man stepped ahead of him and opened the back door for him while his guide put a hand on the back of his head to ease him into the backseat. Benoît soon found himself seated in the back between two men. He was not cramped by them, but certainly could not move easily to reach the doors to try escaping.

With nothing else really to say, Benoît asked, _"Où allons-nous?"_ (Where are we going?)

_"Votre nouvelle maison,"_ (Your new home,) was all the man to his left would say even when Benoît repeated the question twenty minutes later. On the third asking, the driver said something, Benoît thought it might have been in Russian but wasn't sure, and the man to his right pulled a hypodermic needle from his pocket. Benoît gasped as the man seized his arm.

_"Quelque chose que j'ai oublié de faire plus tôt,"_ (Something I forgot to do earlier,) the man explained as he inserted the needle and depressed the plunger. Moments later, Benoît's world turned to darkness.

xxxxxxxxxxx

14 October 1999  
Winchester, England  
The Wykeham Arms

Wallace Frazier came to the Wykeham Arms whenever he was in the Winchester area. Besides being a place to sleep, it had a fine restaurant and a nice, though small, selection of ales. Sure, he had a room already reserved for him and meals on Ashton's account at the Winchester Royal, but why pass up the opportunity to dine at the Wykeham when it was right here? Besides, it gave him the chance to get out in public and look around.

Today, he had enjoyed a nice starter of burrata cheese, heritage beetroot, fennel, and dill oil followed by a main of Owton's dry-aged eight-ounce sirloin steak, triple cooked chips, grilled tomatoes and mushrooms. All of that was paired with a Horndean Special Bitter ale. Three of them, actually. Now, he was awaiting a Granny Smith apple crumble with apple ice cream to top it off.

Someone else in the room had been paying attention to Frazier and his dining habits. Sitting in the back of the restaurant, the Immortal was in a perfect position to view everything else in the room. The man on the right-hand side of the establishment wearing casual clothes could have been a university student enjoying a few drinks while studying his textbook and taking notes. That was a possibility. He certainly took the time to stare into space now and then like a student trying to comprehend the more complicated points of philosophy or physics, but he had not turned a page in his book for almost half an hour. He had certainly taken down a lot of notes during that time, though.

Frazier concealed his smile behind his glass of ale as he took a drink. The Watcher must be relatively new to the surveillance business. He wasn't bad at it, by far, just not fully trained to expect countersurveillance. If not for the fact he had been sitting in his seat since minutes after Frazier had arrived nearly two hours ago and the lack of turning a page, he had not made any real mistakes. No obvious staring or eye contact with Frazier. No stereotypical signs like dark glasses or upturned collars. Just little things. Overall, Frazier gave him high marks.

The apple crumble arrived. Frazier looked up at the waiter, a smile on his face and a plan forming in his mind.

"Oh, thank you," he said as the steaming dish was placed before him.

"You're welcome, sir. Enjoy," replied the waiter.

"Oh, I shall. By the way, may I borrow your pen? I've just had a thought and I'd like to write it down before I forget it." Frazier pulled a small notebook from his jacket pocket and set it on the table. He knew the Watcher could hear their conversation from where he sat.

"Certainly, sir." Handing him a pen, the waiter added, "That's a spare. I'll come back for it in a few minutes."

"Perfect. Thank you very much."

"Yes, sir. Enjoy the crumble." The waiter walked away.

Frazier made a point of taking a bite of the dessert before he began writing. There was no point in letting the ice cream melt too much. He then flipped open the book, clicked the pen, and started to write. The first note was to the waiter. The second, on another page, was to the Watcher. On a third page, he wrote out the name of the Wykeham Arms and the dessert he had ordered. Tearing all three pages from the notebook, he folded each one separately, tucked the third in the breast pocket of his jacket, and replaced his notebook.

The waiter returned when Frazier was halfway through his apple crumble. The Immortal put a napkin to his lips and held up the pen.

"Thank you so much. This was a lifesaver."

"I'm glad to help, sir. Is there anything else I can do for you?"

Frazier handed the man the two folded notes, one underneath the other. "Well, first, I have to give you this note. My girlfriend wanted to write it and give it to you, because you were so kind to her when she came here last time, but she forgot to do so. I think I remembered her words verbatim. She asked me to do it the next time I was here. She asked that I have you read it in front of me so I could see your reaction. You don't have to read it aloud, though."

Frazier grinned. In the same pocket where he stored his notebook, he also kept a fifty-pound note. He had pulled it out at the same time as the notebook and surreptitiously slipped it between the two folded pages. He knew the man would find it now. His back was to the Watcher so Frazier was confident his observer could not see that part of the exchange. The first note read:

Please play along with what I have just said and you will be ￡50 richer. I would like you to do a few simple things for me. Act like you are reading some kind words from my girlfriend and act accordingly. I will then ask for the check. I also want to pay the bill for the student at the table to my right diagonal plus one more pint of whatever he is drinking. Deliver the second note to him. Do not open it and do not tell him who paid his bill. He will know. Do that and act natural and the ￡50 will be yours.

The waiter did not make any obvious sign that he understood. He smiled and said, "Sir, this has brightened my day. Please tell her how happy this has made me. I would be thrilled if she would return so I could thank her personally."

"I'm glad you liked it. I'll be sure to tell her that."

"Can I do anything else for you, sir?"

"No, thank you. Just bring the check, please. I'll finish this crumble and be off." He handed the man his credit card.

"Yes, sir. One moment."

Frazier was fortunate that the waiter must have been distracted by some other duty and did not return for a few minutes. This gave him time to finish his apple crumble, though the ice cream had thoroughly melted by now, unhurried. He thanked the man, downed the rest of his ale, and signed the bill. Picking up his card, he stood slowly like what he was, a man who had just finished a large meal, and slipped it back into his wallet as he walked toward the door. He feigned a small yawn and did not glance once at the Watcher at the side of the room.

Reece Barnett was just about to order another pint of London Pride when Wallace Frazier departed the Wykeham Arms. He frowned, debating whether to pay his bill and follow the man - as he should - or enjoy the drink and pick up his trail tomorrow. No, he should follow Frazier. That was his job after all. He reached for the corner of his textbook to close it…but the waiter arrived with another pint.

"Uh…I didn't order another one," he said, looking up in confusion.

"Don't worry, sir," soothed the waiter. "Another patron ordered it for you. And paid the bill for your other purchases, as well."

"What?" Barnett went pale.

The waiter smiled at him. "He also wanted me to give you this." He proffered the folded note. Barnett took it, trying to keep his hands from trembling.

"Thank you," he said, opening the note once the waiter's back was turned. He blanched again as he read it. Beneath a small, hand-drawn Watcher symbol, he saw:

Hello.

If you are who I think you are then this symbol means something to you. If you are willing, I would like to speak with you about the current goings on. You can find me waiting at the Saint George Tea Rooms just down the street (that's 75 Kingsgate Street, just in case you get too excited and forget). I'll be there for one hour. If you decide not to talk, just destroy this note and enjoy the ale.

WF

Barnett read the note again, drinking half of the pint out of pure nerves as he did so. He had been identified. What had he done wrong? Hadn't he done everything he had been trained to do? How had Frazier noticed him?

Barnett realized he held the glass Frazier had purchased for him and grinned. Then he laughed. Only one man could answer that. What harm could it do talking to him now? He had already been spotted and times were already so crazy. What harm could there be in a little chat. Barnett drank the rest of the ale and closed the textbook. He pondered dropping it in the trash bin as he left. He no longer needed it. He had finished his degree over a year ago anyway.

xxxxxxxxxx

15 October 1999  
Paris, France

Devon Sather sighed and ran a hand through his close-cropped hair. The other five in the room looked just as exhausted as he. They had been poring over the ever growing list of Guardian volunteers for days now.

"I think we're done for now, gentlemen," declared Sather.

Patrick Bremmen, the newly appointed personnel officer nodded. "Yes," he agreed, looking at his notes. "I think we can work with this and grow from it." He sighed himself. "Enemy permitting."

"Yeah," breathed Sather. "There's always that." He turned to Jonathan Matzel, the operations and training officer. "What do you think about the deployment and training plan, Jon? What there is of it?"

Matzel grimaced, his own thoughts mirroring Sather's. "I wish we had time to actually hammer some real training into these guys first. I don't like the idea of sending them out there with whatever they happen to recall from years past and weaponry they own themselves. It's too random."

Ramesh Laghari spoke up, as well. "It would be nice if we could at least give them the cover of being their old selves, police or military, so they could have some explanation for having the weapons, some protection from law enforcement if they are caught with them."

"We can work on that as we have time," said Sather. "We need to get some people out in the field as soon as possible, though, to protect the at-risk families."

"That's a given," admitted Laghari. "I just wanted to voice the thought."

Sather nodded. "Make a note to talk to the legal guys about that, please, Becca. It's a good idea. Now, back to the training part of the question, Jon?"

Matzel brightened slightly. "We've identified some good candidates to serve as trainers, some guys who haven't been out of the game that long and can probably do the job really well. I think we can make use of them. Let me take them aside and we can build a rudimentary school in, oh, I'd say three or four weeks. That would give Patrick and the rest of you time to get the other support, cooks, drivers, et cetera, that we'd need. After that, we can take the five hundred or so volunteers that we've sequestered from this huge list and run them through the course. We can rotate the others through it afterward."

Sather nodded slowly. "It's a start, at least."

Bryan Green, the logistics officer, never stopped scribbling with abandon on his notepad the entire time the others were talking. Sather glanced his way.

"Are you alright over there, Bryan?"

"Yes, sir," replied Green. "I'm just trying to think of all the things you guys are going to need in order to make all of this actually happen. It's a long list and I'm sure I haven't thought of it all. I'll need input from each of you to be sure it's complete."

Sather smiled and looked at the others. "One thing we can't forget, everyone, is everything we do hinges on the logistics guy. If we can't get stuff, we can't do stuff. Remember that."

The other officers chuckled and nodded.

"Very true," concurred Matzel. "It's hard to do what you need to do if you're standing there naked, hungry, and cold. You need the right gear, in the right amount, at the right time."

"There was a Marine Corps general," added Sather, "Robert H. Barrow, who said "Amateurs talk about tactics, but professionals study logistics.""

"Alright, guys, alright," said Green, dropping his pen. "You can stop stroking my ego now." He grinned. The others laughed again.

"I want to start putting Guardians in houses in England day after tomorrow, properly equipped or not," stated Sather, all humor gone from his voice. "I'm going to be at one of the houses myself to supervise how they operate. Can we make that happen?"

"Yes, we can, sir," said Jonathan Matzel. Everyone noticed his grin had vanished from his face.

xxxxxxxxxx

16 October 1999  
Winchester, England

"The scouts have turned up a few scraps of information regarding suspected Hunter activity in Britain," reported Honnecker, "but not much. It seems they're keeping their tracks covered quite well until they make their strikes."

"That's not good for us at all," opined Ashton, sitting in a nearby chair in the small conference room.

"Exactly," continued Honnecker. "It's suspected that most of them, it seems, at least those who are at the Field Watcher level, are continuing about their normal duties, reporting to both of their respective chains of command, and then participating in the hit. Then they await a new assignment and lay low for a while, not targeting their new Immortal since that would make them an obvious mark as a Hunter."

"Very smart," commented Ashton, "and bad for us."

"We have been told that there is a short list of suspected Hunters that has been put out to the rank and file and that the field agents have been told to look out for them, but so far none of them have been spotted."

"Do we have that list? And pictures of those individuals?"

"Not yet, but Frazier spoke with one Watcher two days ago who says he will provide it to us soon."

Honnecker's computer beeped at that time to notify him of an incoming email. The German turned to face the screen. He grinned slightly.

"It's from our nameless Watcher," he said. "The Navy man." He opened the message and read it aloud for the others in the room.

General Honnecker,

Thank you for your offer to assist in the guarding of some of the Watcher families. Though, of course, I cannot make this an official partnership between us, I can certainly extend my own gratitude and a few local addresses which you and your team could just happen to find through some mysterious manner. I have at the bottom of this message a short list of addresses and phone numbers. There are only three families there and they are all in the vicinity of the locality you mentioned so it will hopefully not constrain your current operations too much. If you like, I will even make first contact with them so they are prepared for your arrival.

The Watchers are going to send out their first deployment of Guardians (as the new security team is now known) to secure some other homes starting tomorrow. They are hoping this will deter future attacks by this group of radical Immortals. They are under specific orders to fight back but not to take the heads of any Immortal who attacks them. The intent is to show they are not like the Hunters. We hope this will be an effective technique.

We have had very little luck identifying any of the Hunters so far except for who we think are a few low-level players. We think the officers are most likely higher ranking Watchers who have more flexibility of movement within the organization. They definitely have eyes inside our establishment but we no longer have anyone within theirs. Our man, Max Correll, was killed back in August. We have not been able to get another man to replace him since then.

I wish you good luck in your fight against the Hunters. I hope it fares better than ours has been so far.

PO2

Roderick (Watcher) and Cora (Spouse) Leonard  
Children: None. Cora is four months pregnant.  
92 Imber Road  
Winchester SO23 0NQ  
03069 990709

Lee (Watcher) and Gail (Spouse) McCarthy  
Children: Gregory (6), Cindy (8)  
26 Woodman Close  
Sparsholt, Winchester SO21 2NT  
03069 990139

Dominick (Spouse) and Caitlin (Watcher) Santana  
Children: Juan (10), Christopher, (8), Victoria (5)  
1 Grange Close  
Winchester SO23 9RS  
03069 990535

Ashton read through the list of families at the end of the email before leaning back into his chair.

"It may only be three addresses on paper," he said, "but that is quite a responsibility for us. We don't want to lose even one of those families."

Honnecker nodded. "Agreed, General. I will ask our Watcher friend to make contact with them and we will start working on a schedule to have people there until we know the threat has passed us, if it does. Who knows? We may even pick up some useful intelligence while we're there."

"One can hope," concurred Ashton. "Darren?"

"Yes, boss?" replied Dublin.

"Everyone has been equipped with the new weaponry now, right?"

"Yes, they're good to go there. They've got Glock 17s and shoulder holsters for concealed carry. Of course, they'll have to take particular care not to be caught with them due to the laws here. They also have Heckler and Koch Universal Machine Pistols for heavier work, when necessary. I put yours in your room in the safe under your usual combination."

"Thank you."

"We have a surplus of weapons in expectation of the arrival of more help. That's all boxed up and ready for either distribution or shipment elsewhere, whichever we need. It's stored offsite and under discreet guard by a few dependable chaps I know."

Ashton nodded. "Very good."

xxxxxxxxxx

18 October 1999  
Northampton, England

Tyson Dalton was nervous. Sather couldn't blame him. It wasn't every night that five armed men arrived, said you and your family were in grave danger, and took up residence in your house. Even more nerve racking for the Watcher was when one of the EDOW's special staff was accompanying those five men to supervise their performance and conduct. Admittedly, this being the second night of their presence there, Dalton had calmed slightly, but only so. Sather's warning that not only Dalton, but his wife and two young sons were also in danger had struck the man quite hard.

Tyson's wife, Abbie, had taken the news about as well as her husband had. The boys, Connor and Travis, aged ten and eight, respectively, had not so much felt threatened but had thought the sight of armed men to be quite cool, as a matter of fact. Having their parents call in and say they were sick so they could spend the day out of school was even better, they thought. It gave them more time to chatter with the men about their guns and ask if they could shoot them…or at least touch them. While they never got their wish, the blond man giving them orders did allow two men at a time to take a break, except for the two who were sleeping in Mommy and Daddy's room since they had been up all night, to play with them. That was almost as good. They could only play indoors, though, so they had to get creative in what they did after a while.

Soon after darkness fell, Abbie got the boys ready for bed and the men settled down for a more attentive watch. Adam Ward and Blake Francis unrolled the hideaway bed from the couch and went to rouse Marco Fisher and Theo Wells from their slumber to make room for the parents. Riley Stewart and Devon Sather would have their turns in the parents' room come sunrise. The Guardians, despite their causing a cramped atmosphere in the house, were still trying their best not to crowd the Daltons as much as possible. They had even brought several days worth of their own food so as not to deplete the family's own supply.

"Do you think they'll come tonight?" asked Tyson.

"With luck, no," replied Sather. "I'd be perfectly happy if tonight were just as boring as the night before. In this business, a boring night on guard duty is a good night."

"Yeah. Yeah, I guess it is."

"Remember the plan if it's not, though," Sather reminded him. "The moment you hear anything from any of us, you find the closest Guardian and do exactly what he says. He and at least one other will gather the rest of the family into a room and guard all of you while the rest of us deal with the problem. Got it?"

"Yes, sir," affirmed Tyson. "Understood."

"Now, you're welcome to stay up with us as long as you like or you can go to bed along with your wife. Your choice."

"Well, I don't know how much sleep we'll get, but I think going to bed is the best option for us right now even though it is only nine o'clock."

"Okay," said Sather, grinning. "Sleep well, if you can."

"Yeah, good night."

Sather followed the Watcher with his eyes. The man was putting on a good show for his family, but he was wrought with fear and it was crushing him. The slump of his shoulders as he went down the hall toward his bedroom said it all. He knew full well the threat posed to his family. He had read the reports of the other attacks. The arrival of the Guardians had just brought the reality of the situation closer than he liked. As if keeping track of Immortals were not fantastic enough of a concept for one's mind to comprehend, now those same people were trying to kill him. It was enough to weigh down anyone's soul.

He also, from the look on Abbie's face when the Guardians had arrived yesterday, had a lot of explaining to do. Some Watchers were more upfront about their jobs than others when it came to their spouses. While some told them everything, others preferred simply to say they were historians involved in active research. Tyson apparently was one of the latter. Abigail Dalton had no clue what Immortals were or why they were a danger to her. Now her entire world had changed.

While checking that his Desert Eagle .44 automatic pistol was loaded and on safe, Sather signaled to Fisher and Stewart to turn off or dim the lights in the house. If the family had gone to bed, it was best for the rest of the house to appear that way. They - the Guardians inside - would also have to be wary of how they passed windows during this time so they did not silhouette themselves. Sather had reminded the men of this before the night shift the day before and it had been a good thing. Wells, a former policeman with little tactical experience, had no idea what he meant by it until it had been explained in more detail.

It was also a reminder to Sather of just how widely varied the prior training of the Guardians was and how that gap would have to be filled by Matzel's ad-hoc course. He was amazed that such a basic concept was not covered in basic surveillance training for Watchers. Thinking back, Sather tried to recall if it had been part of the curriculum when he had gone through the Academy and was surprised when he could not recall it. He made a mental note to have a talk with the Director of Watcher Training, another of Walker's staff, about this.

An hour passed uneventfully, just as Sather liked it. He sat by the front window prepared for the next to pass like the first. A pair of headlights down the street caught his eye. The vehicle in question parked half a block away and shut off its lights. Sather was about to discount it as just another occupant of the block when two more cars parked near the first. The doors opened and several darkly-clothed figures began to exit the vehicles.

"Heads up," Sather whispered. "We've got nine, ten, eleven people, confirmed eleven people down the street. They're heading this way."

"Wake up Ward and Francis?" asked Stewart.

"Not yet," answered Sather. "Let's confirm it's not just a group of kids on a stroll first."

Wells and Fisher moved to the hallway leading to the Dalton's bedrooms and knelt, their shotguns over their knees. Stewart stayed back near the folding bed. Sather continued to peer out the window.

"Okay, the group has now paused and broken up," reported Sather. "Most of them are going into the shadows across the street. Two of them are coming toward the house. I think they're going to do a recon." He turned to Stewart. "Okay. Wake them and get that bed folded fast. Hide."

Sather stood in a crouch and dashed across the room into the kitchen. He knelt in a dark shadow where he still had visibility of the window he had been using as a lookout site. By the time he was there, Ward and Francis were already out of bed and the hideaway was half folded. Stewart was fetching the couch cushions for them. Wells and Fisher had backed further into the hallway. In another thirty seconds, the couch looked normal again and the three Guardians in the sitting room had dispersed. They waited, trying not to breathe too loudly.

Time stretched out infinitely as the Guardians sat in silence. They heard nothing except their own heartbeats, their own respiration. The clock on the Daltons' sitting room wall was thunderously loud as it ticked through the seconds. After what seemed to him like an eternity of stillness, Sather finally spotted a shadow moving at the front window. It was just a blob, at first, but soon took on the form of a head and shoulders as it came closer. The head peered through the glass into the room, looking to the right and left, then dropping down. The head appeared again at a farther window.

Sather counted to sixty and was about to move when another shadow rose up at the first window. He froze in place, biting off the gasp he felt rising in his throat. The shadow dropped like the first and, a moment later, also appeared at the farther window.

_Okay,_ Sather thought,_ two came this way and two checked the windows. It should be clear now._

Just to be sure, Sather counted to one hundred before daring to rise back into his crouch. He crept noiselessly back into the sitting room. Turning his head toward the hallway, he issued his first order.

"Wells, Fisher, secure the family. Quietly. Get them all into the master bedroom. Keep them low."

"Right," affirmed Fisher. To their credit, Sather barely heard them moving.

"The rest of you," he said into the sitting room, "form a line along the wall by the hallway facing the door. Fire on my command."

The Guardians shuffled through the darkness, only once banging a knee on the arm of the couch. Sather was grateful nothing fragile was knocked to the floor. They stood with their backs to the wall and waited. Sather took a deep breath. A thought came to his mind. Walking carefully, he made his way to the front door and unlocked it. He then took his place back in the line.

"Okay, guys," he whispered, "those two recon guys are probably reporting back to the others. Just stay calm and wait. When they come in, I'm betting it will be through that door, just like the other times. I also think they're going to switch on the lights. When they do, I'll give the command to fire. Understood?"

"Yes, sir," chorused the others softly.

"Alright. Make sure the safeties are off and your fingers are off the triggers. Be ready."

Not to his surprise, Sather heard at least one safety click to the off position. It was yet another reminder of just how long it had been since some of these people had handled a firearm in a stressful setting. He bit off a sigh and waited. He could bitch about training later.

Whether they waited for five minutes or for another twenty, Sather did not know. All he knew was after a while, a line of shadows drew up along one of the windows near the front door. The silhouettes of their submachine guns were plainly obvious. Sather suddenly felt under-equipped for this mission.

_Too late now,_ he thought as he heard the soft click of the front door turning.

Sather had expected one of the group to kick the door in and for the rest to come streaming into the room. Instead, finding the door unlocked, the lead person, a woman, simply pushed open the door and reached for the light switch. She then sauntered casually into the room, her weapon pointed at the floor. She was closely followed by two others, men this time. A fourth person was just crossing the threshold when the lead woman finally noticed there were other people in the room.

The woman, a redhead, froze at first, completely surprised by the sight of four armed men lined up along the wall staring back at her. Her eyes widened and her jaw began to drop. At the same time, the H&K MP5SD3, a familiar sight to Sather, began to rise.

"Fire," roared Sather, triggering his Desert Eagle in the direction of the nearest armed Immortal, the third in the room. The tall, dark-haired man, who had just turned to face Sather, caught the massive round in the sternum. The bullet punched through the thick bone and penetrated through to his spine, dropping the big man instantly to the floor.

The other Guardians, all armed with shotguns of various types, fired their weapons as soon as they heard Sather's voice. The red-haired woman screeched, hit in the right arm and shoulder, and dropped her weapon. She fell to a knee. The other Immortals in the house, the one next to the woman and the one who had just crossed the threshold, both fell from the blasts.

Sather ran over to the injured woman, kicking her weapon away from her. "Fire through the window," he ordered loudly, already seeing the shadows of the other attackers turning to shoot through that available aperture. Bullets and shot pellets crossed paths with each other over a short distance as did a profusion of curses in various languages.

Sather stood behind the woman, seizing a handful of her garment behind the neck and lifting her up. She flung an elbow back at him. He deflected it with the butt of his Desert Eagle and then fired another round through her back, blowing out her right lung. Taking three long steps toward the door, he flung her body through it and pulled back into the house. A figure filled the doorway. Sather fired at it reflexively as he backed away, tripping over one of the bodies behind him. The figure sank, hit in the abdomen, and crawled out of sight.

"Pull out!" they heard a voice from outside call over the sound of gunfire. "Pull out now."

"Cease fire," ordered Sather immediately. "Let them go."

The fire from the Guardians stopped, but not their rancor. One of them turned, red-faced, on Sather, his voice hot with rage.

"Let them go?" repeated Wells. "What the fuck? We've got them on the run. Let's go after them."

Sather waved a hand at the Guardian, telling him to keep his voice down. "We don't have the numbers to pursue them, asshole. Our mission was to protect the family. We've done that." Sather glanced behind Wells as he heard a familiar, dreaded sound. "And we have more important things to worry about right now," he said, pointing at the wounded body of Adam Ward. Riley Stewart, ignoring the blood flowing from his own injuries, was already kneeling over the man trying to treat the multiple bullet wounds. Wells looked, as well. The sight of Ward calmed him considerably. He nodded to Sather.

"What about them?" asked Wells, gesturing to the dead Immortals littering the sitting room.

"Take all their weapons and toss their bodies in the front lawn. Do the same with anyone you find out front. Do it fast before they recover. Keep an eye on them until they go away."

"We're just going to let them go? After what they did to our families?"

"Yes, Wells, we're letting them go. We're not Hunters. We're showing them that we'll fight to protect our own, but we won't act like their enemies. Got it?"

"Yes, sir," said Wells. "I understand now."

"Good. Thank you, Wells. Let me know when the authorities arrive. We're going to have a lot of creative explaining to do. Let me take care of that."

"Yes, sir. I'm on it."

Sather turned to assist Stewart with Ward. One look at the man, however, told the former SEAL what he could expect even from their combined efforts. Adam Ward, aged thirty-one, would soon become the first Guardian killed in the line of duty.


	20. The Sun In His Jealous Sky

"I never made promises lightly and there have been some that I've broken  
But I swear in the days still left we'll walk in fields of gold"

"Fields of Gold" - Sting

20 October 1999  
Oxford, England

"Now that we're all somehow back together again, let's talk about the monumental cockup that was our last hit, shall we?" O'Banian looked around the room at the ten other Immortals. "For starters, I'll take complete responsibility for my lackadaisical attitude goin' through the front door. I should have had better situational awareness there."

"I think," interjected James MacNaughton, stroking his chest where the massive .44 caliber round had struck him, "before we get too deep into an after action review of our own shortcomings, we should talk about our enemies' actions at the scene first. Those were not Hunters. I think we just had our first run-in with that special team they mentioned in the announcement a few weeks ago."

Ruth Okin, who had called for the Council's retreat, agreed. "Yes, and did any of you hear what they said when we called to pull out? They immediately ordered a cease fire and to let us go. Why was that?"

"That has ta be obvious," snorted O'Banian. "They didn't have the numbers to chase after us. They were jus' there to protec' tha family. They're not organized enough ta do anythin' else. Tha's all."

"Then why didn't they take our heads when they had the opportunity?" asked Pittman. "They certainly had the chance when we were down. MacNaughton and I were completely helpless as soon as the shooting started. You said you were shot through the lung and had been thrown through the door, that you could only lie on the ground."

"And I was very much the same," admitted Batakova. "I was shot in the stomach and could hardly move."

"De Lioncourt and I were badly hit, as well," proclaimed Bilsby. "They got us through the window soon after the shooting began. We could barely limp aware when Ruth ordered the retreat."

"Again, I say they were not organized enough to do so or they would have," declared O'Banian. "It was just a sign of their own weakness. Don't take it as a sign of mercy on their part. The Watchers and the Hunters are all the same."

"I have to agree with Siobhan," said Razumov. "I heard one of them arguing with the leader when he gave the order to let us retreat. He wanted to pursue us, not let us slip away."

"See?" stated O'Banian. "It's in their blood to want to destroy us. The fact we all survived that hit was a fluke. We might not be so lucky next time. We have to adjust our tactics so we can hit them harder next time."

"When is the next strike?" asked Penn. "And where?"

O'Banian consulted her list. "Andover. As soon as we can get there. Probably day after tomorrow."

"Okay," replied Penn, "so what do we change?"

"For starters," said Mikal, "we stop just going through the front door. We use the back, as well. Hit from at least two sides to keep them occupied on two fronts."

"Right," agreed O'Banian. "We'll have to rehearse that a few times to make sure we don't shoot up our own people."

"We can do that," whispered LeFitte. "It's better than just sitting around the hotel. What else?"

MacNaughton spoke up again. "Better reconnaissance of the site before we hit. We showed up just minutes before we went in that time. For all of the other hits, we were there at least an hour beforehand. We should go back to that."

"I agree," said Bilsby. "The more information we have about the target area before we go in, the better."

The conversation continued for another hour as the group identified both the elements of their raid they could improve and what they should keep the same. When they were finished, they believed their next hit would be all the deadlier as a result.

xxxxxxxxxx

21 October 1999  
Paris, France

The Guardian planning meeting had been going well, for the most part, until Michael Walker decided to ask a question which made Devon Sather grouse inwardly with irritation. Until this moment, the EDOW had been sitting quietly at the table. Now, he spoke up.

"Are you trying to grow the Guardians as an effective team, Dev, or supervise their individual assignments? I'm a bit confused by recent events here."

"Obviously, I'm trying to help them develop as a team, Mike, but in order to do that, I have to have an idea of how they actually operate on the ground. That is why I was with them in Northampton a few days ago."

"So you were not there to take command of that operation yourself?"

"Naturally, being the senior man present, I did take command."

"Did you think you were the most qualified to do so?"

"Damn it, Mike? What is this? An inquisition? Yes, I did. And the results should speak for themselves. The enemy was caught by complete surprise, three of them were killed in the ensuing fight, at least three more wounded, they retreated before penetrating further into the house, and the family was unscathed."

"And one Guardian was killed and another wounded. You left that out," added Walker.

"We're fighting Immortals, Mike. With old shotguns. They have brand new MP5 and CZ-75 pistols. We captured five of each type of weapon, if you'd like to see them. You can't go up against that kind of hardware with a bunch of farmer's double barrels and pump guns and expect to come out without a scratch. We're lucky to have only had two casualties that night."

Walker raised both hands, palms out. "It's alright, Dev. I'm not trying to embarrass you in front of your entire staff."

"It certainly fucking seems like it, Mike. So what are you doing, then?""

"I'm just trying to get a clear picture of what happened that night and what your overall intent for the future of the Guardians is."

"Then why not read my report again and get the fuck out of my face?"

"I'm not the enemy here, Dev."

"Then stop acting like a goddamn fucking bureaucrat and act like an ally, Mike."

"You've made the sailor come out of him again, boss," commented Jonathan Matzel, smirking.

"Clearly," replied Walker. "I should have brought a bottle of rum to calm him down."

"You'll need a whole fucking bar for that by now," declared Sather, his face red.

"I'll be sure to have our next meeting at the bar downstairs, then," said Walker, grinning. "Will that work?"

"I'll hold you to that," growled Sather, letting a small smile appear on his own face. "You're buying."

"Of course." Walking smiled again. "That's how it works, right?"

Sather laughed now. "Yeah, it is. Alright, you got me, Mike. I'll behave. For now."

"Thank you."

"Now, tell me more about this raid."

"Siobhan O'Banian was definitely the leader. She was the first one through the door."

"But you threw her out. Why was that?"

"We weren't trying to take prisoners. Just protect the family. I saw the best way of breaking the attack as getting her out of the house. I thought she would rally the troops if she were shot down in the house or if she were able to recover fully. I made a decision on the spot and got her out of there."

"It was quite a risk."

"So was the whole mission, but it paid off for the Daltons."

"I'll grant you that," allowed Walker.

"It's also worked out in one other way. Just this morning, I got a report that a Hunter attack in Germany was foiled by Guardians. The Immortal in question was wounded, but was able to escape. One Hunter was killed, but the rest got away."

"Who was the Immortal?"

"Burkhardt Sacher," Sather said flatly.

"Ah, good," answered Walker. "It would have been a shame to lose an old soul like Sacher."

"It would have been nice if the Guardians had been able to take a prisoner."

"They're under orders to try, but not to go to undue risks for it. I'd rather they survive first."

"Granted," said Walker. "Now you said in your report that you identified some deficiencies in Field Watcher training and that we need to improve some things as a result. Tell me more about those. I know you listed them there, but there was little detail. Please expand on them. I was intrigued by this suggestion."

"How much time do you have?"

"As much as you need, Dev."

xxxxxxxxxx

23 October 1999  
Stockbridge, England

The Parisian phone line rang in Ruth Okin's ear. She held the handset with thinning patience, waiting for Omeir Faaris to answer. A finger twisted around the phone cord a little tighter with each successive ring. The click signifying an answer was a welcome relief.

_"Bonjour?" _(Hello?) answered Faaris.

"Omeir, it's Ruth," she said Okin in English

"Ruth? Where have you been? I haven't heard from you in weeks."

"I've been in England," she replied. "It's been hectic, if you want to put it mildly. I got a call from another friend who also heard about the mortals killing Immortals and came here. There's a group of Immortals who are doing something about it."

"Then why haven't you called me sooner? Tell me where you are so I can come there and help."

"No, no not yet. We could really use your help here, but it's too fluid right now. Something in my mind tells me to wait until we have a better idea of what's happening here before asking you to step in."

"What's going on there, Ruth?" Faaris queried.

"It's a decent enough group. I think you'd approve. They call themselves the Council and they're led by an Irish woman named Siobhan O'Banian. The people attacking Immortals are a global organization called Watchers and she wants to destroy it all. The Watchers have even created a special task force to try to stop us.

"We've made nine strikes so far. We had one in Andover yesterday. The task force - they call themselves Guardians - were there and we killed six of them. We also killed all the Watchers there. We're making two more hits tomorrow, one in Littleton and one further south in Winchester. After that, I think it will be okay for you to join us. I'll let you know for sure when it's over."

"Would you send me an email with some more information so I can let MacBane know what's happening?"

"Sure, I'll do that. No problem."

"Thank you, Ruth."

"I'll call you again soon, Omeir. Talk to you soon."

"Goodbye, Ruth."

"Goodbye."

xxxxxxxxxx

24 October 1999  
Littleton, England

The house at 18 Grove Gardens was a three bedroom semi-detached bungalow of brick construction. The property had a decently sized plot with gardens to the front and rear. There was even a small greenhouse at the rear of the house. A small, decorative brick wall lined the front of the house and had a tiny green and white wrought iron gate at the end of the drive. O'Banian had even gone as far as to look up the value of the bungalow prior to arriving. It was currently valued at ￡142,000. Once more, she marvelled at what the Watchers must be paying their people in order to afford such nice houses.

"Are you sure about this, Siobhan?" asked Hewett Penn. "We usually wait until nightfall before we go in for our hits. Do you really want to go now? It's only five o'clock. The sun will be setting in an hour."

"No, it would still be two hours or so after that before it's fully dark and I want ta be linkin' up with Michael, Ruth, and the others by ten so we can move on. This place is tiny. Besides, we checked it out last night and it was clear. We should be able ta hit it now without a problem."

"It's your call," said Bilsby from the passenger seat.

O'Banian tapped her fingers on the steering wheel. "Alright, then. You know the plan? We go through the front. Emily, Marton, and James will hop the fence to the back and come in from the rear. We take 'em from both sides."

"Got it," acknowledged Penn.

O'Banian tapped her brakes twice. LeFitte, MacNaughton, and Razumov in the vehicle behind them drove past them and parked thirty meters ahead. The doors to their car opened and expunged the three Immortals who took off at a run. O'Banian counted to thirty in her head. Turning the key to switch off the engine, she grinned darkly.

"Let's go," she said to the others, picking up her MP5 and opening her door. Bilsby and Penn were right behind her.

They ran through the open gate and straight for the front door. Penn took the lead and checked the lock. It was not locked. He turned the knob and threw open the door, darting into the sitting room, he MP5 at his shoulder. O'Banian and Bilsby followed him. After that, everything went to hell.

Penn saw the first Guardian and triggered his MP5 just as the Guardian fired his pump shotgun. Most of the buckshot pellets hit Penn in the right hip, throwing off his aim as he was driven to a knee. Cursing in pain, he fired again, hitting the Guardian in the chest. A blast from another shotgun caught Penn in the left side and dropped him to the floor next to the fallen Guardian.

"Dirty fucker," screeched O'Banian, turning her MP5 toward the three Guardians to her left. She and Bilsby fired at the same time, each of them hitting a Guardian and putting him down. The last Guardian managed to fire two shells at Bilsby before being hit in the head by a burst from O'Banian's MP5. Bilbsy crumpled to the carpet, his blood seeping into the thick weaving. O'Banian stood alone in the sitting room.

The sound of more shotguns and even a rifle firing from the direction of the kitchen kept O'Banian moving. She entered the next room to find three Guardians firing rapidly at Razumov, LeFitte, and MacNaughton through the glass door. All three of the Immortals were still in the back garden, caught in the open by the fire. LeFitte was on the ground, hit in the right thigh and doing her best to crawl out of the line of fire. Razumov and MacNaughton were firing bursts back through the shattered glass at the Guardians.

One Guardian, a bolt-action hunting rifle in his hands, took aim over the iron sights at the two Immortals in the back. O'Banian fired at him first, hitting him with a rising three round burst from the shoulder to the temple. He dropped like a stone. Caught in a crossfire, the two remaining Guardians pulled back into a connecting hallway, out of sight.

"Jansen, Hall, Sykes, we need help," one of them called out.

"Shit!" cursed O'Banian. Turning to those in the back, she yelled, "It's fucked. Pull out. James, help me with Hewett."

"On it," replied MacNaughton, storming through the back door, his MP5 held ready. Behind him, Razumov knelt to assist LeFitte in her escape. O'Banian and MacNaughton pulled back into the sitting room. Penn was already stirring. O'Banian changed her plan on the move.

"Get Darmond," she ordered, training her MP5 on the hallway and firing a burst in that direction just to keep the Guardians' heads down. Next to her, Penn slowly stood on wobbly feet.

"Get yer stuff," she told him. "We're clearin' out."

Not bothering to ask why, Penn nodded and picked up his submachine gun. Stumbling once, he steadied himself and then joined her in pulling security. They began to back out through the front door as MacNaughton dragged Bilsby's body.

MacNaughton deposited Bilsby in the backseat of O'Banian's car while she and Penn covered the house. They remained in place until Razumov and, by now, a fully recovered LeFitte joined them. With a nod from O'Banian, they broke apart and returned to their vehicles. Seconds later, there was only the sound of their tires squealing on the pavement as they sped away.

xxxxxxxxxx

24 October 1999  
Winchester, England

The five Immortals stood concealed in the trees behind 1 Grange Close, their submachine guns charged and on safe. Each of them also had their respective bladed weapons of choice on their backs or waists, per their own selection. None looked particularly happy in the dimming dusk light.

"I'm not saying it's a bad idea to be out here," whispered Eric Doyle again, "just that I don't like it. I know that any attacker, if they actually show up, will sense us if we're inside, but it's going to take us time to get to the house. Just think of how much damage they can cause in the time it takes us to travel the hundred meters from here to the back door."

"I don't like it, either," replied Jennifer Ellis, shifting her UMP to her other hand. "But we don't really have a choice. If they sense us at all, they might bypass the house entirely. Then we'll never have a chance to engage them at all."

Doyle smiled at the pretty Algerian in the fading light and nodded. "Like I said, I get it. I just don't like it."

"This is my first night on this kind of watch," admitted Chris Pellier. "Are we taking heads if they show up or just fighting them off?"

"Whichever they force us to do," answered Frazier evenly. "Ashton's instructions were to use the minimum force necessary to protect the family. He said nothing about not taking heads if it came to that."

"Good enough, then," said James Pellier, who was also on his first night. "Let's hope for a dull, dreary night."

"That's what all the others have been," replied Doyle. "I think the Santana family has been more stressed about this than we have lately. They've been pacing until late at night and going to bed around one in the morning."

"At least the parents," clarified Ellis. "Dominick and Caitlin have been the ones pacing. Juan, Christopher, and Victoria have been going to bed at normal times just like always."

"They know about all this, right?" asked Chris.

"Of course," said Frazier. "We spoke with them the first night we were here and told them we would be standing by out here. They tried to convince at least one of us to remain indoors with them but understood our reasons for not doing so."

The temperature had been cool throughout the day and continued to drop after the sun went down. By eight o'clock, it was seven degrees (46℉) and Ellis was shivering. Doyle put an arm around her shoulder and pulled her close.

"How do you people live in such a frigid place?" she whispered, huddled closer to him.

"It's all in what you know, I guess. This isn't so bad to me. I suppose if I went to your home, I'd be melting, am I right?"

Ellis grinned and punched him lightly in the chest. "Maybe," she said. "I'm perfectly comfortable in thirty to thirty-five (86℉ to 95℉). Sometimes higher."

"See? I'd be dying in temps like that. Thirty degrees is a heatwave here."

"Heh, you should try summering in the southern U.S., then. Their summers sometimes get into thirty-eight (100℉) or higher."

"Oh, God," hissed Doyle, trying to keep his voice low. "No, thank you."

"It's not so bad," cooed Ellis, nestling closer to him. "It's not like Central and South America. It's even hotter there."

"No, thank you, my dear. I'll stick to merry old England, thank you very much." He pulled her a little closer, enjoying the physical contact.

"Alright, you two lovebirds," interrupted Frazier. "We have a little company coming 'round the back. I see two."

The Pellier brothers peered through the branches at the pair. "They must be hostiles," said Chris softly. "I see submachine guns."

"They're doing a reconnoiter. I'll bet you a fiver on it," added James.

"They're coming this way. Back up," whispered Ellis.

The Immortals cautiously tread back through the trees toward the A34 fifty meters to the west. They reached the road and kept to the shadows, jogging south along the property line another hundred meters as the trees would allow and ducking into the woodline again. They waited. The crept east again toward open ground. To their relief, they did not feel the tingle of Immortal presence.

They paused at the edge of the woodline, the open ground presented a danger to their concealment. Ellis tapped Chris Pellier on the shoulder, appointing him as the one to go out and check whether it was clear for the rest of them to break cover. He nodded and jogged out along the treeline, stopping only when he reached a point at which he could see the house again. He knelt and stayed in place for two full minutes, just watching. He came back at a dash.

"I saw them returning to wherever they came, I think," he reported. "We can go back to our original point and wait."

Ellis nodded. "Okay. Hurry, everyone."

The group stood and moved at a quiet jog. They were back in the cluster of trees within a minute. Ellis had them each do a quick weapons check of their suppressor-equipped UMPs and Glock 17s. They gave her a thumbs-up and waited again.

Ten minutes of silence rewarded them with the sight of two shadows approaching the back door. The pair, a man and a woman, waited at the sliding glass door. They saw one of the shadows consult a wristwatch, as if awaiting a prearranged time. When they agreed upon time arrived, the male shadow tried the sliding door, found it locked, and then fired three suppressed rounds into the door. The glass shattered and the pair walked through it at a rapid trot.

"Go," whispered Ellis.

The five Immortals broke cover and made their way toward the house at a run. Halfway there, they heard Caitlin Santana scream, followed soon by a shout from Dominick. Eric Doyle, the fastest runner of the quintet, bounded up the deck stairs. The Pelliers were on his heels.

Ellis saw the female Immortal, alerted by their buzzing electric presence, turn to see Doyle just as he reached the top of the deck. The woman opened her mouth to warn her partner. Doyle fired his UMP as his slender form cleared the glass door, the double two-round bursts punching into the woman as he moved. The second burst hit her high in the chest. She fell to her knees, choking on blood. Doyle delivered a buttstroke to her temple as he neared her, driving her to the floor, unconscious. Behind him, both of the Pelliers fire simultaneously, both of their two-round bursts striking the male invader in mid-turn. Hit in the right side, his lung perforated, the man fell and twitched in agony. The Pelliers fired again into the man's chest to stop his movement.

Ellis and Frazier peeled to the left around the Pelliers and Doyle to get a better view of the sitting room. Ellis felt bullets tug at the shoulder of her sweater and fired a burst into the room at the first target she saw, a brown-haired man of moderate height. Hit in the arm, the man dropped his submachine gun and sank to a knee.

"Hold your fire," ordered Frazier sternly to everyone in the room. To the amazement of all, each Immortal complied, all who were still standing staring over the sights of their weapons at the others.

Ellis took a moment to survey the room. Caitlin Santana was on her knees, clutching a bleeding shoulder. Dominick and Juan were at her side whispering softly to her. Christopher and Victoria were just now entering the sitting room to discover why their mother had screamed, their eyes wide in horror at the sight of so many people with guns. Victoria, only five years old, immediately broke into silent tears. Dominick pulled the small girl to him. Christopher, three years older than his sister, was slightly more stoic and stood staring at the intruders, his arms at his sides.

"I think," said Frazier, "what he have here is what you call a standoff. Wouldn't you say, fellas?"

One of the invaders, a tall man with Slavic features, eyed each of the new Immortals in the house and scowled.

"I beg to differ," he countered, dropping his firearm on the floor. "We came here with a mission and I, for one, intend to finish it. If that means going through you to do it, so be it." He unbuckled his gun belt and let the CZ 75 fall to the sitting room's carpet, as well. His hand rested on the hilt of the longsword strapped at this side and waited. "I am Dasmius Mikal. My challenge is to you." He looked to his comrades. "Are we agreed?" The remaining pair nodded silently.

"Well, sir," replied Frazier, lowering his UMP. "I am not the leader of this group, but I am perfectly willing to accept your challenge if it means the safety of this family. I am Wallace Frazier." Frazier glanced at Ellis. She nodded silently. He turned and placed his UMP on the kitchen counter. With a sidelong glance at Mikal, he smiled as he undid his own gun belt. "Shall we take this little affair of ours out back so we don't damage these good folks' home?"

"Whatever suits you best," replied Mikal. "I shall await you there."

Placing his pistol on the counter next to his UMP, Frazier turned to Ellis. Her eyes were wide as she regarded him.

"You don't have to do this," she said.

He nodded. "Yes, I do. It's been agreed. If there is any honor among them at all and I succeed, they will leave. It's better than an all out gunfight, isn't it?"

Ellis thought quietly for a moment and then reluctantly nodded. "Yes," she admitted. "Good luck." Then she embraced him.

Frazier smiled and returned it. "Call that return embrace a loaner," he said. "You can give it back to me when I return."

Ellis nodded to him as he turned away, hoping he would actually do so in a few minutes time. Such things were never a guarantee in the Immortal world. She stepped lightly through the broken glass door to observe the duel. The others silently followed her. She even heard the gasps of the two downed Immortals as they revived and the murmuring of one of the invaders as they explained what was happening.

Mikal stood as he had promised in the back garden of the Santana's property. His sword was still sheathed, his hands behind his back. His eyes were focused on the stars overhead.

"I had hoped," he said as Frazier approached, "to one day return to my home in Romania. At times like these, even Immortals come face-to-face with their own mortality. Please know that I hold no grudge against you personally, Mister Frazier. This is all business to me."

"Is there any way I can talk you out of it?" Frazier asked the Slav.

Mikal smiled. "I'm afraid not. Just know this - and I ask the same of you - if you fall tonight, I will honor whatever funeral requests you may have. In my case, I would like my body buried in the Transylvanian mountains where I was born. Have you any such requests?"

"Well, I was born in Ireland, in Ballinlough. If you're willing to be so obliging, I'd like to be laid to rest there."

"Consider it a pact, then, between two gentlemen," said Mikal, offering his hand. Frazier took Mikal's hand and shook it warmly.

"I wish we could have met under better circumstances, Dasmius Mikal," stated Frazier.

"And I, you, Wallace Frazier."

The two men smiled, released each other's hands, and stepped back. With a stately bow, they drew their swords. For the briefest of moments, the men simply eyed each other over their blades. Then they struck.

Unlike what Hollywood would have one believe, true sword fights, even between masters, are quick, bloody, and lethal. Rather than being a long series of blade-clanging exchanges, they actually do not last long. A fight involving three or four exchanges of blades would be considered a long one in reality. The same is true when it comes to martial arts or other types of combat. The reality is much shorter than the fantasy. When two opponents face each other, even two who are supremely skilled, the better of the two is determined rapidly and the loser is incapacitated or dead in a very short time.

The two Immortals advanced on each other at the same time, their swords both swinging in a perpendicular stroke toward the other's neck. Steel met steel in a massive clang and the two changed places, their blades sliding back as they resumed their stances. Mikal pulled back with his sword, going in immediately with an overhead stroke at Frazier. The Irish Immortal pushed his blade to the side to deflect the stroke as he stepped to the side and then looped his weapon around for a decapitating strike at Mikal's exposed neck. The Romanian, however, had stepped forward and was out of range.

Turning, Mikal came at Frazier again with a rising stroke that caught him with the tip of his blade from left hip to right shoulder. Mikal continued in a spin, his sword rising to finish the kill. The flair ended the fight. Frazier hit him with a diagonal stroke across the spine as his back was turned. With a cry of pain, his momentum still turning him, Mikal fell to his knees. Frazier knocked the longsword from his hands.

"I will honor our pact, Dasmius Mikal," promised Frazier, his blade rising.

"You have my heartfelt thanks, Wallace Frazier," said Mikal, closing his eyes and offering his throat. Frazier's sword fell along with Mikal's head. From the deck above, Dominick Santana gave a gasp of surprise. Back in the sitting room, Caitlin held her children closely to her.

When the Quickening had concluded, the Council members gathered silently around the body of Dasmius Mikal and said their final words. They allowed Wallace Frazier, due to the promise he had made, to join them. Once they were all satisfied, they gathered their weapons and, per their agreement, left the Santana house without further molestation.

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25 October 1999  
Winchester, England

Jennifer Ellis took a breath, her retelling of the events of the night before complete. The young looking woman looked down at the small conference table and sighed, her exhaustion obvious. She and the others of the security detail had stayed at the Morris family's house until shortly before sunrise. The others, except Frazier, were now getting some much needed rest while she had come straight to the tiny operations center to report to Ashton and Honnecker.

"Wallace will be away for a few days. He wanted to keep the promise he made to Dasmius Mikal before he took his head. He's making the arrangements to fly his body to Romania right now."

Ashton nodded solemnly. "It was a reasonable enough request from Mikal. Any of us would have agreed to it. I see no problem with his going. Will anyone be accompanying him for security?"

Ellis's eyes widened. "I didn't think of that. I'm sorry. Right now, no. He's alone."

"Normally, I'd say he's perfectly fine on his own. These are not normal times, though."

"I can go with him," volunteered Dubin from the far corner.

"Sorry, Darren, I need you here. Max, would you mind sending one of your men along with him?"

"That won't be an issue, General," replied Honnecker. "Channing is well rested by now. He can go with Frazier and watch his back. I'll arrange the link up."

"Good. Thank you." The Minoan looked across the table at Ellis. "And you, little lady, need some sleep. Your job is done for now. Excellent work last night. Now go get some rest."

Nodding, Ellis stood and walked out of the room, her slender frame displaying the extent of her weariness. Behind Ashton, Honnecker turned to face his laptop as a ping alerted him of an incoming email.

"We have something else, General," he announced. "Another message from our Navy friend."

"Read it, please, Max."

General Honnecker,

There was an attack by the renegade Immortal faction on a Watcher family in Littleton last night. The Guardians were there and were able to repel the assault at the cost of five men. The family is safe, though.

There was an unexpected reward from the attack, however. One of the Guardians had the clearance of mind to pull out a camera and take several photographs of the Immortals as they were retreating. I have been able to obtain copies of these pictures and I am sending them to you in this message. We have definitive proof of our suspicions now. The leader of this group, which we have learned calls itself The Council, is Siobhan O'Banian.

From these photographs, we have also identified James MacNaughton, Emily LeFitte, Hewett Penn, and Marton Razumov. One of the Guardians at the scene believes he saw Darmond Bilsby there, as well. We know this is not all of the Council since we also received reports of their attack in Winchester last night, as well.

The family in Winchester which was attacked was the Santanas, one of those your group - by the way, I've started referring to you as The Alliance - was guarding and successfully turned away the Council. For this, I am truly grateful. We had a Watcher nearby, of course - he is the one assigned to watch Eric Doyle - and he thinks he saw Ruth Okin and Michael De Lioncourt in the group. He was not able to identify the others. He did say, though, there were five of them. We now know the Council numbers at least eleven members. Ten, I should say, since Wallace Frazier took the head of one of them. Our man reported seeing a Quickening last night. We have not yet spoken with Caitlin Santana so we do not have her input on the event or her information regarding any of the other Immortals who were present, if she knew any of them.

Despite the loss of five Guardians last night, a great deal of information has been gained regarding the Council. I wish the same could be said for the Hunters. We did have some Guardians encounter some of them in Germany a few days ago and they were able to kill one, but no prisoners were taken. We are hoping the Guardians will be able to get a prisoner or two in the future, with luck without the loss of an Immortal life in the process since they are only able to identify the Hunters once an attack begins.

I hope this information is of use to you. I will let you know anything else I discover as it becomes available. I wish I could tell others about the Alliance and make my support of you more public but sadly that is not the case right now. In the meantime, I wish you the best of luck.

PO2

Ashton heard a low, animalistic growl emanating from Dublin's corner of the room. He kept his face impassive, but whispered to the Irishman, _"Chan eil an-dràsta."_ (Not right now.)

Swivelling in his seat, he leaned in to read over Honnecker's shoulder. The German was viewing the pictures that had been attached to the email. Taking some time to look at them himself, Ashton grinned.

"The loss of his men is sad, it's true," he said, "but it does present an opportunity. We have learned the names of several of the players. Michael De Lioncourt, Siobhan O'Banian, Dasmius Mikal, Darmond Bilsby."

Ashton leaned back, thinking. He snapped his fingers. "I have an idea. There is someone who knows that man and who could be useful." He turned back to the conference table and opened his own laptop. He began to write out an email.

Honnnecker was about to ask Ashton what he meant by "that man," but was distracted by a ringing phone. He answered it and began taking a report from one of the scouts out in the field. All the while, the Minoan's fingers worked on his keyboard.

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26 October 1999  
Edinburgh, Scotland

Ottenbreit cradled the phone in his shoulder, taking the cigarette from his lips. He tapped the ash into a nearby tray as he listened to the voice on the other end. The German grinned.

"This class is doing exceptionally well," said Harlan Earnshaw. "They will graduate and be available to you by the end of December. We can then take on a new class."

Ottenbreit wanted to clap his hands. "That is spectacular news, Harlan, better than I could have hoped. Superb work. And you'll be coming back to Europe for a few weeks after that?"

"Yes, sir. I don't particularly care for the heat here so it will be nice to get back to a more reasonable climate for a little while."

"You are welcome, of course. Maybe you will even be able to see some of the fruits of your labor while you're here."

"That would be a nice bonus."

"How many do you want for the next class?"

"Let's go with half of the original group, maybe forty, forty-five."

"That won't be a problem. I'll arrange it with Adam and Emilio so they have the men ready when the time comes."

"Thank you, sir."

"The thanks go to you, Harlan. Many, many thanks."

"Don't make me blush, sir."

Ottenbreit could hear the chuckle in the man's voice. He responded in kind. "It's all true. Anyway, I will see you when you arrive for your well deserved break. Thanks again, Harlan."

"You're welcome, sir. I'll report back again, soon."

"Goodbye, Harlan."

"Goodbye, sir."

Ottenbreit hung up the phone and laughed aloud. If his enemies thought they had a difficult problem facing them now, they should just wait until Harlan Earnshaw's graduates showed up on the scene. They would then be begging for the good old days of August and September when things were so easy.

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28 October 1999  
Eastleigh, England

O'Banian scowled at the computer captured from Andrew Dixon, not even reading the pages of information as she scrolled through them. Her mood was too dark to concentrate on such details. She tapped on the mouse and keyboard simply to keep from doing what she preferred, smashing everything in sight. Behind her, the other members of the Council sat quietly, scattered throughout the hotel suite. They had neither moved from this city nor had they made plans for another strike in three days. The inactivity was getting to them all. So, too, was the growing string of defeats.

O'Banian scoffed and flexed her fingers. She needed to do something. Standing, she paced to the far end of the suite and back to the kitchen table. That didn't help. She went to the refrigerator and poured a glass of juice. Downing it in three gulps, she refilled the glass and sighed. That helped a little bit. She went back to the computer.

Thinking aloud, she said for the others to hear, "England has become a shitstorm. I think we need ta relocate. Move our operation somewhere else."

"Any thoughts on where?" asked LeFitte from the sitting room, her feet up on the coffee table as she lounged on the couch.

O'Banian didn't answer. She just scrolled through lines of data inside the Watcher news feed. Several items caught her eye. She focused on them.

"France," she finally replied. "This thing says there have been a lot of Immortals killed there lately, even more than in England. We move our fight there."

Ruth Okin, sitting next to LeFitte, perked up. "I have a few people who are willing to help us in Paris. If we go there, we can link up with them."

"I've got a few folks waiting for word on where to join us, too," added De Lioncourt. "That would be a perfect meeting ground."

"That settles it, then," decided O'Bannian. "Paris, it is. I'll make a few calls myself."

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29 October 1999  
Winchester, England

General Honnecker,

I am Donald McShayne, a Watcher trusted by the agent you know as PO2. I have been tracking the movements of the Council for several days now. They are currently in Eastleigh and are planning to change their place of operations from England to France, specifically the Paris area. They left this morning. They will be meeting with several other Immortals who are in agreement with their cause. I don't have names, but there are at least six, possibly more, who will be joining them.

I hope this helps.

McShayne.

"That's it, General," said Honnecker after reading the message, "just this short missive sent from another anonymous account even though the man did choose to identify himself."

"That's enough. It's a major shift for them. The Paris metro area is likely full of Watcher families and they will not have to bounce around as much as they did in England in order to find targets. We need to move in the next day or two. I also need to contact the others on my list of supporters and have them meet us in France."

"While you do that, boss," said Dublin, "I'm going to go ahead of the rest and get things prepped. There is also something else I need to do while I'm there."

The tone of the Irishman's voice drew Ashton's attention. He glanced his friend's way, divining its meaning.

"Alright," agreed Ashton. "Just don't go overboard."

"Me? Go overboard?" Dublin gave him a look of pure innocence.

Ashton's reply sounded neutral despite its sarcasm. "Yes, Darren, you. I've met you. I know what you're like."

END OF ACT 1


	21. Your Best Shot

"You come on with it, come on  
You don't fight fair  
That's okay, see if I care  
Knock me down, it's all in vain  
I get right back on my feet again"

"Hit Me With Your Best Shot" - Pat Benatar

29 September 1999  
San Diego, California

Erik Frost replaced the phone in the cradle and swore softly. The words of warning he had just heard from Siobhan O'Banian rang in his ears.

"Erik, the Hunters are rampant in England. You can't come to Skye; it's not safe. Meet me at Saint-Vincent de Paul Catholic Church in Paris on Tuesday the ninth at six pm. Use the western entrance and ask for Patrick. He knows about Immortals and he can be trusted. And Erik, watch yer back."

Hunters.

Frost leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes. Images immediately swirled through his brain, images he would never forget. He could still hear her voice, see her face, smell her terror. And he still felt helpless.

The attack had come out of nowhere. He and Kendra had been quietly celebrating their first wedding anniversary. A small, intimate dinner at a cosy restaurant in Chicago's West End. One minute he had been closing the clasp on the diamond necklace he had given her, the next he was diving for the floor, bullets spraying around him.

He had lain there, bleeding, dying, trying to reach out to Kendra as she lay on her side, blood trickling from the corner of her mouth.

Just as their fingers had been about to touch, they had grabbed her, dragging her by her hair away from the overturned table.

Erik pushed himself away from the wall, not wanting to remember the rest. Not wanting to remember her screams and cries, and then the absolute silence. He'd spent the last nine years not wanting to remember, and he still couldn't do it.

He slowly ambled his way into the bedroom, grabbing the soft-sided suitcase from under the bed. Absently, he began to toss clothes into it. If there was a chance he could avenge Kendra's death, he'd do it.

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03 November 1999  
Paris, France

O'Banian was exhausted. She'd never liked flying, and even the small flight from London to Paris had drained her. Of course, she hadn't slept at all last night. Business had taken precedent. She had given the Watchers a little wake up call. It would be under the guise of an accident - faulty gas fitting in this case, but she didn't doubt that the Watchers would understand its message. That done, all she wanted to do now was sleep.

Through the open window, a light breeze entered the room as she placed her blade under the bed within easy reach. She then reached into her only bag and retrieved her Magnum. Checking to make sure it was fully loaded, she then moved to put it under her pillow.

xxxxxxxxxx

When she revived from her temporary death, her head felt as if an atomic blast had gone off inside. She knew what that meant and raised her hand in front of her, the hand that should have held her pistol. Settling for her sword, she quickly looked around, making the always revolting discovery of her blood splattered across the wall. The more unsettling discovery, however, was the message left on the wall above the bed, the one that was obviously written in blood; her blood.

Honour?

She'd only just read the word when the pain exploding in her shoulder caused her to drop the blade she'd been holding. No sooner had she grabbed the shoulder with her other hand, than the new pain in her knee dropped her onto the bed. Almost immediately, she felt the presence of another Immortal. She desperately tried to overcome the shock that her body insisted required her loss of consciousness. She did not know how long she had lain prostate on the mattress, her mind struggling to move her agonised body. Rolling off the bed, she had just enough time to grab her sword and struggle to her knees when the door opened. The only thing she saw was the flash.

When O'Banian felt the pain in her head, she was surprised she could do so. She mindlessly assumed that the only reason Immortals attacked another was so they can take a head. When she opened her eyes, she understood why she still had her head. Lying on her back, she had a perfect view of the second message of the night written, again, in her own blood, this time on the ceiling above her.

Honour?

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03 November 1999  
Paris, France

The flight had been long and uneventful. Frost had switched planes in New York, uneasily scanning faces to see if there was anyone he recognized. There hadn't been.

He strode through de Gaulle airport, weary from his travels. A man and a woman, each in a long, dark trenchcoat, blocked his path. They were not Immortals; no sixth sense had kicked in and told him his own kind were near. He eyed them nervously, not trusting them to not create havoc in a crowded airport.

"Mr. Frost?" the man inquired. He was in his late twenties, blonde with dark eyes and the shadows of a beard.

"Perhaps," Erik Frost replied. "Who's asking?"

"Mr. Frost, we come from Michael Walker. We are…"

"Watchers." Frost spat the word rather than said it. "Well, if you Hunters think I'm just going to surrender my head here and now, you've got another think coming."

"Mr. Frost, we're not here for your head," the dark-haired woman replied, sighing. "We just want to talk to you."

"Just like you wanted to 'talk' to my wife, right?" Frost was becoming agitated and the people around him were beginning to notice.

The man put his hands up, "No, Mr. Frost. We mean you no harm. We know about your wife, Kendra, and we are sorry that it happened. We just want to talk to you. Please."

Frost regarded the two of them, all his senses telling him not to believe, to tell them to go to hell and continue on his way. Erik studied the faces of the two Watchers in front of him. Perhaps he owed it to Kendra to at least listen to what they had to say. He shrugged his shoulders.

"I'll listen. But that's as much as I'll do. And only in a public place. I'm not going anywhere with you guys."

"Fine," the woman responded. "How about the airport bar?"

Frost nodded, and the three made their way to the bar. There, they selected a secluded booth away from the main bar. It gave them not only the privacy to talk, but it also gave Erik Frost a good view of the door. Just in case.

"Erik. May I call you Erik?" the man asked, continuing when Frost nodded. "Erik, Immortals and Watchers are poised on the brink of war, but what the Immortals fail to understand is that not all Watchers are involved in this. A renegade band has reformed: the Hunters. Unfortunately, they represent the twisted few that slipped through the cracks. It happens in religion, the police department, the teaching profession, and it's happened here."

Frost nodded but remained silent. The woman continued the chat. "What Brad here is trying to say, Erik, is that we are as appalled at the situation as you are. But what's making it worse is that the majority of us, the good, decent ones, are now being targeted by Immortals."

"Not only that," the man interjected, "but some of your kind are going after innocent people. Now, albeit some of them are the families of Hunters, but they are innocent. Retaliating in such a fashion doesn't do your cause any good. The decent ones among us see this and some wonder if the Hunters aren't right."

It was the woman's turn again. "Erik, we're appealing to you to talk to your fellow Immortals. Reason with them. Make them see sense. We know about the Immortal Council meeting tonight - at the church. Michael Walker is the Director for Watchers. He's our boss - and he's a good man. He is as mortified over this as you are - more so because these people worked for him. He blames himself for not seeing it coming."

"I doubt he's as mortified as we are," Erik offered. "He's not being hunted. Yet." He added the last word softly. The word brought the two Watchers to a halt and they briefly exchanged glances.

"Michael is asking that you approach the Immortal Council to meet with him. He'll meet with them anywhere - holy ground, anywhere."

Frost snorted. "Holy ground? Holy ground didn't help Siobhan O'Banian, did it? She was on holy ground when they came for her and they didn't think twice."

"That was the Hunters, Erik. That wasn't us," the man severely reminded him. "Michael can be trusted. He wants to get these guys as much as you do, and he thinks that he and his people can do it - if we all work together."

"All we ask, Erik, is that you think about it and that you tell the others," the woman urged.

Frost said nothing for a moment, thinking. "And what if they say no?" he asked finally.

For a brief heartbeat there was silence. Then the woman spoke. "Then it's war, isn't it? And it will be a bloodbath."

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He'd called ahead and told her he was coming. Her tone had been neutral, the only emotion coming when he had told her why he was coming to Paris. Standing outside her apartment, he again wondered at the wisdom of him being there. Perhaps it would have been better if he had just phoned and warned her. Too late now.

Taking the stairs two at a time, Frost quickly covered the six flights to the top floor. Down the hall. Third door on the right.

She opened before he even knocked, smiling that coy, mischievous smile she had mastered over the centuries.

"Hey, I was wondering when you'd get here. Come in." She opened the door wider, cautiously scanning the hallway behind him before, closing and locking it firmly.

Frost looked around. Never a tidy housekeeper, Miranda LeFauve had the place looking like a bomb hit it. For a brief moment, Frost wondered if the place hadn't been ransacked.

LeFauve ducked by him, heading back to her task. Packing.

"What are you doing?" he asked, watching her debate between a black Versace dress and a dark green Chanel one.

"What does it look like I'm doing. I'm packing. As a friend of mine would put it, 'I'm getting the hell out of Dodge'. What were you expecting me to do? Stay?"

"Well, yeah, I was."

She rounded on him, eyes wide. "Erik, you can't be serious? The Hunters are everywhere. Staying in Paris is not an option, not a smart one anyway." She dropped the lingerie she was holding and came toward him.

"Come with me. I have two tickets to a remote little island off the coast of Jamaica. No Hunters. No Watchers. Hell, other than us, probably no Immortals. Come with me. We can lay low for a few decades, work on our tans - it's secluded so we don't have to worry about tan lines." She ran her hands across his chest, resting them on his shoulders and staring up at him with her big brown eyes.

For a moment he was tempted, but then reality returned. He couldn't turn his back on the others - he needed to deliver the message from Michael Walker, and he needed to be there, to help make peace or stand beside his kind and fight, whichever was needed.

"I can't, Miranda," he told her softly. His hands covered hers and he removed them from his shoulders. "It won't go away. Oh, it might for a few years, even a few decades, but it won't go away completely, not unless we do something. I've spoken to some Watchers." He heard her breath catch and saw her look of alarm. "No, it's all right. These were the good guys. They want to meet, to see if we can't work together and get the Hunters instead of going after each other. I need to deliver that message to the Council tonight at the church."

LeFauve shrugged. "So deliver your message on the way to de Gaulle. We can catch the eight o'clock flight rather than the five o'clock one. Please." She sweetened the offer with a kiss, lingering just a little longer than was friendly.

It would have been easy to just give in. To just say to hell with it and help LeFauve finish her packing, spend the rest of the afternoon lying around like they used to, before delivering his message and getting on a plane to anywhere. But Kendra's face emerged in his mind, and Frost broke the kiss and abruptly turned away.

"No, Miranda, no." He shook his head. "I have to do this. I can't let someone else suffer like Kendra did. I have to do it for her - it's her legacy." He turned back to her, tears threatening.

She sighed and frowned. "Why do I always end up with boyscouts? Why, for once, can't I find someone who doesn't feel a need to take the moral high ground?"

Frost chuckled. "You have met them, you just complain that they don't pose much of a challenge for you. You'd rather try to corrupt us good guys." He moved toward her, wrapping his arms around her.

"Not doing a very good job am I," she muttered into his shoulder.

It was a long time before either of them moved.

xxxxxxxxxx

07 November 1999  
Olympia, Washington  
La Petite Maison Restaurant

The beef tartare hors-d'oeuvres in front of Charles Ulrich were getting cold. He had forgotten about them mere minutes after placing his order for his main dish, a seven-ounce dry-aged prime filet of beef with maitre d'hotel butter, bordelais sauce with fingerling potatoes and an add-on of prawns and with béarnaise sauce. He chose a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon to accompany the meal and nursed a glass of it as he sat lost in his own thoughts.

He had been released from the European Alliance, as the Watcher known only as PO2 had started calling his group of Immortals, on the first of the month in order to begin his tail of Matthew Crouse. The potential Hunter had been identified when Ulrich and General Honnecker had taken down a Hunter cell in Austria. Ulrich's mission was to determine positively whether or not Crouse was a Hunter and, if so, bring him in for questioning by the Alliance.

Ulrich had been fortunate thus far in that some of the information he had on the man was still somewhat current. The Watcher was assigned to the San Diego area of California and Ulrich had been able to spot him there. To Ulrich's surprise, though, Crouse had been loading his vehicle in preparation to depart that very morning. Rather than the stakeout Ulrich had planned for the day, he ended up spending the day in a careful tagalong pursuit of the Watcher's car for the next several days. Ever mindful of Crouse's own training in surveillance and potentially in countersurveillance, Ulrich had to use every trick that came to mind, following from afar or passing Crouse and tracking him with mirrors, trying always never to be an obvious tail that the Watcher would spot.

Fortunately for Ulrich, Crouse never spent more than four or five hours on the road, not counting rest stops and lunch. He was a fitness buff and liked to find a place hotel with a gym by two or three in the afternoon. He would then spend two hours working out and another hour either on the treadmill or running through the town. He would then shower, have dinner, and spend the rest of the night in his room. Ulrich learned from the first morning, after getting up very early himself, that Crouse would then rise at six o'clock, have a light breakfast, shower and change clothes, do a few things on his laptop, check out, and then be on the road again by eight o'clock. Once a routine had been established, Ulrich knew when he could step away for a short break, such as a late meal for himself.

Now, sitting in the French restaurant, he wondered about Crouse's ultimate destination and the reasoning for it. The man had temporarily been assigned to the European contingent of Watchers. There had been no indication in the email traffic Ulrich had seen about him being transferred permanently. That would explain his return to the States. This leisurely trip north had him baffled, though. Why drive? Why not fly? Ulrich shrugged and took another sip of his wine. Maybe the man just enjoyed driving. Sometimes, Crouse even stopped in one town or another just to look at a site or two. He seemed to be in no particular hurry to get anywhere. Considering the events in Europe and the similar, though not as drastic, state of affairs in the U.S., this confused Ulrich even more.

His meal arrived and Ulrich put the matter out of his mind for now. He was going to enjoy the beef and wine and not worry about Matthew Crouse for a little while. There would be time for that later. Thirty minutes passed and Urich pushed the plate with the dregs of his meal away. He took another pull from his wineglass and signalled for the check. It was time to go back to his hotel.

Crouse had checked into the DoubleTree Hotel across the Olympia Yashiro Friendship Bridge. It was a mere two point four kilometer drive and, with the light traffic, Ulrich was at the hotel parking area in only five minutes. He locked the doors to his car, checked his pockets to make sure he had his passcard, and went to the side entrance to the staircase. He took the stairs up to his floor and walked down the carpeted hallway toward his suite.

Ulrich paused at his hotel room door. Someone had either been inside the room earlier or was in there now. Ulrich had left a single hair pulled from his scalp plastered between the bottom of the door and the jam with saliva when he had left. That hair now lay on the floor. It was an old technique, to be sure, so old that few people even looked for such signs when they entered a room nowadays.

Ulrich rubbed his thumb and forefinger together, debating how to respond. It was possible the intruder, or intruders, had come and gone. In fact, that was the most likely scenario. All they would have found when they searched his room would have been a suitcase full of clothes and a shaving kit anyway. His laptop and other valuables were still in the boot of his car. But what if they were still there, waiting? If he walked in nonchalantly and that was the case, he would be dead.

Deciding to act as if the latter scenario were the case, Ulrich let his eyes drift to the right and left. There were no other guests in the hallways at the moment. He put his hand beneath his jacket and withdrew a Heckler & Koch USP9 Tactical, a 9mm semi-automatic pistol. He mentally reviewed the layout of the suite as he slowly rotated a sound suppressor onto the pistol. The door opened onto a short hallway. Two meters to the right was a small enclosed kitchenette. Passing that, the hallway opened up into a large sitting room. The door to the king-sized bedroom was in the middle left of the sitting room and the bathroom was accessible from the bedroom.

Ulrich took a pocket flashlight from inside his jacket and held it in his left hand. He placed his right thumb on the safety of the pistol, ready. There was a round already in the chamber, he knew. He slid the passcard noiselessly into the locking mechanism and waited for the green light to appear. When it did, he began to turn the knob with infinite slowness, using three fingers of his left hand, the others still gripping the light. He raised the pistol to eye level.

When the doorknob clicked, several things happened simultaneously. Ulrich shoved the door open and stepped through the threshold, he snapped the safety of his pistol to the "Off" position, and he brought his flashlight up alongside the pistol. Knowing he was silhouetted by the light from the hallway and had only heartbeats before any hostile occupants within the suite recovered from their surprise and fired, he stepped down the hallway, turned, and went into the kitchenette. Only then did he switch on the flashlight. The astonished face of a fair-haired man appeared in front of him. A suppressed pistol was also barely visible in the man's hands. Ulrich fired his USP, pointing in the same direction as the light, from a meter away. The intruder dropped to the floor without a sound. Ulrich swept the tiny area with the light, saw no one else, and switched it off.

The German turned toward the office entrance and knelt, pointing his weapon that way. The hallway lighting provided enough illumination to show no one was in the line of sight. He doubted the man he had killed had come alone. The question now was where his partner, or partners, were.

Ulrich dropped to the floor as a bullet passed through the wallboard of the kitchen enclosure. Another buried itself in the slightly stronger framework near the threshold and a third passed through the doorway. Another trio worked its way back the opposite direction, this time slightly more spread out. Ulrich now knew where the other shooter was.

The sitting room had a couch along the left wall and facing the television. At the far end of the couch was an end table and a reclining chair. A coffee table sat in front of the couch. From the strike points of the bullets, Ulrich deduced the shooter to be at the far end of the sitting room next to the end table and the recliner. This position made sense since it gave maximum visibility of the hallway and door. Had the shooter a little more time or had Ulrich been more careless when entering, the shooter would have been able to ventilate him when he had entered.

Crawling to the edge of the doorway, Ulrich switched the USP to his other hand. He was not ambidextrous, but he had trained in weak-hand shooting in the past. Setting the flashlight aside, he hoped the hall light would provide enough illumination for him. Ulrich took a deep breath. Letting half of the breath out, he rolled partially out into the hallway, bracing his left hand with his right. He fired two quick rounds in the direction of the recliner, two more between it, and two at the end table. He was rewarded with a groan and the sound of a slumping body.

Ulrich rolled back into the office and waited for more shooting. There was none. He heard only the sound of scrambling and cursing at the far end of the sitting room. Ulrich stood and, taking a chance, stepped into the hallway and shut the door to the suite. No one fired at him. He felt his way back to the kitchenette and knelt down again. Tapping lightly on the floor, he found the flashlight and put it in his left hand again, moving the USP back to his right. Listening for another half minute, he decided to risk coming out of the kitchen.

Ulrich stepped into the sitting room, moved to the right, and swept the flashlight across the expanse of it. There was only the one wounded man trying to find his weapon. Ulrich saw the suppressed pistol lying a meter from the man's hand and picked it up. The man sobbed at the loss. Moving to the doorway to the bedroom, Ulrich flung it open and stood to the side. There was no fire. He moved in and checked that room and the bath. It was clear. He went back to the wounded man, switching on the sitting room lights as he did.

The man on the floor had dark hair and brown eyes. He had been struck in the thigh by one of Ulrich's bullets. With the loss of his weapon, he now seemed much more concerned with his injury than he had before. He was desperately trying to apply pressure to the wound to stop the bleeding. Ulrich regarded him for a moment, his USP still trained on him. Then he spoke.

"If you will allow me, I can help you with that wound. I can stop the bleeding."

"Piss off, Ulrich," spat the man, his blood-covered hands slipping across his thigh.

"Oh, so you know me." Ulrich grinned and sat on the couch. "That's a lot more than I can say for you and your late friend in the other room."

Ulrich remained silent for a full minute, watching the man. When his frantic cries began to weaken along with his efforts with his leg, Ulrich tried again. "I'm afraid, if you don't take me up on my offer soon, we'll never be able to chat. I can get a pillow case from the bedroom and make a pressure dressing for you now, if you like."

The man lifted his head wearily, his eyes staring daggers into Ulrich. Finally, his desire to live overcame his hatred and he nodded, his shoulders sagging. "Yes," he said softly. "Hurry, please."

Ulrich stood. Placing the USP and the Hunter's captured pistol on the bed, he took one of the pillows and pulled off the casing. His shoulder holster designed to allow for a suppressed pistol, he slipped the USP into it and returned to the sitting room. The wounded man was leaning against the wall, his face ashen. Ulrich draped the case over the arm of the couch and knelt next to him. Checking the man rapidly for concealed weapons, he found nothing. He then retrieved the pillow case and tucked it beneath the man's leg. Feeling for the artery above the wound, he tied a knot above it and cinched it tight. The man groaned.

"So it's more like a tourniquet," admitted Ulrich, "but at this point you need it. You've lost a lot of blood."

The man nodded. Looking down, he saw the bleeding had slowed to a dribble. He sighed through the pain, relief on his face.

"Thank you," he said despite himself.

"You're welcome," replied Ulrich. He sat back on the couch and regarded his patient. "Now, should I call you "Bleeding Guy" or do you have a name?"

The Hunter laughed, though it came out more as a wheeze. "Ah, what the hell does it matter now, huh? I'm fucked anyway." He shrugged. "I'm Moran. Scott Moran. That guy in there," he pointed toward the office, "was Joseph Spears."

Ulrich nodded and let the man keep talking. He had seen this before. Blood loss had lowered his inhibitions. He would be very susceptible to questioning right now.

"So who sent you after me, Scott? Was it Crouse?"

Moran furrowed his brow. "Crouse? No. Never heard of him. We were sent here by Emilio Gironelli."

"Would you like a glass of wine, Scott? I'm going to have one. It's been quite a night." Without waiting for a response, Ulrich rose and walked toward the kitchenette. "I just hope none of our fire hit the refrigerator," he called over his shoulder.

He returned a minute later with a bottle of Spätburgunder, a corkscrew, and two glasses. Grinning, he said, "We're in luck." He said the glasses on the coffee table, removed the cork, and poured two healthy measures into the glasses. He offered one to Moran who accepted it.

"Thank you," he said with a weary grin. Moran drank deeply from his glass, his thirst increased by his blood loss. Ulrich held out the wine bottle and refilled the glass for him.

"Gironelli," repeated the German. "I've heard that name before. Isn't he the District Director for New York City and Long Island?"

Moran nodded, the alcohol already going to his head. Ulrich filled his glass again. "Yeah, that's right, but he has more responsibilities on top of that. He's also the boss of all of our operations in North America."

"All Hunter activity?" Ulrich clarified.

"That's right," said Moran, tapping his chest with a fist as a belch followed his reply.

"And he's the one who ordered the two of you to come after me tonight?"

"Yeah. Some of the Field Watchers, the typical agents, were keeping an eye on you since you left Europe and Emilio was keeping tabs on your movements via the Watcher database. He thought you were getting too close to Crouse and told us to take you out."

"Why not warn Crouse and let him disappear? He's certainly capable of that?"

Moran belched again and drained his glass. Ulrich refilled it again. "Emilio didn't want to ruin his vacation. Crouse took three months off to go to Seattle to visit family and to take part in a martial arts competition."

"I see. And what did you mean when you said you were fucked earlier?"

"Oh, that." Moran laughed. "Well, if you don't kill me or I don't bleed out from this wound, there's no way Emilio is going to let me live, is there? He'll call Werner Heinz, Alan's cleanup man, to take care of me."

"Alan? Who's that?" inquired Ulrich.

"Are you kidding me?" replied Moran, hiccupping. "Who doesn't know Alan Ottenbreit. He's the man behind the curtain, the one who showed us all what kind of threat you Immortals are. He's the reason we're fighting you."

"So he's the head of the snake, then?"

"I guess you could say that. Hey, this wine is pretty good. What kind is it?"

"It is called Spätburgunder. It's a red wine. This one is from a vineyard near Baden-Baden in Germany. A friend of mine owns it."

"He does good work. I'll have to send a bottle of this to Ethan before he goes off to Europe."

"And who is that?" asked Ulrich.

"Oh, just a buddy of mine from the Marine Corps," replied Moran. "Ethan James and I go way back. He's going to be teaming up with Ottenbreit in a few days to help out with operations over there."

"Really? Tell me more about your friend, Scott." Ulrich refilled Moran's glass and even went to get a second magnum of wine from the refrigerator to keep the man's tongue lubricated. Later, he checked the Hunter's wound, making sure he was not in danger of losing a leg or bleeding out. All the while, he kept the woozy, increasingly drunk man talking.

xxxxxxxxxx

08 November 1999  
Over the Atlantic Ocean

It was a dark and stormy night. A crowd of people marched behind a man on a large, black horse. They brandished pitchforks, torches, and other crude weapons. The horde marched across a bridge towards a foreboding castle. Lightning cracked, illuminating the faces of the angry crowd. The crowd stopped at the gate to the castle and the man riding the horse shouted an order. Chanting, the people brought forth a large tree and hammered it into the gate. Eventually, the gate crashed to the ground. The man dismounted his horse and drew forth a bow. He slowly led the crowd into the dark hall of the castle. Turning to his men, he shouted.

"Take whatever booty you find, but remember; The Beast is mine!"

The crowd was promptly attacked by furniture and household goods.

Locke pulled his headphones out of the armchair. Never before had he seen such crappy movies on a TWA flight. He didn't know what was making him so uneasy. Was it the recent death of his friend, Cid Sith? No. Locke knew he had seen so much death and destruction in his life that one person, friend or not, made no difference. It was much deeper than that. Locke poked Taiki Tokawa's shoulder.

"Taiki, how much longer is this damned flight?"

Taiki Tokowa removed his headphones. "Five minute shorter than last time you ask." Tokawa put the headphones back on and was instantly engulfed in _Beauty and the Beast_.

Locke wished the airline would play something more entertaining than cartoons. If they were set on showing Disney movies, why not ones like _Aladdin_? It, at least, had perverted lines stuck into it by the movie creators.

"Please, Taiki. Talk to me. You can see _Beauty and the Beast_ whenever you want."

Tokawa again removed his headphones. "I sense you fear, Vincent."

"Not fear...more like, I don't know."

"Well, it not much longer until we land in France. Hour, maybe."

Locke quickly gazed out the window. Greenland peaked over the misty horizon.

"I hope everyone else makes it on time. I'm worried about Siobhan. Her mouth seems to get her into a lot of trouble," Locke said.

Tokawa laughed to himself.

"You likee her, donta you?"

"What? Of course not! I'm just worried that she might have trouble getting to France, that's all!" Locke suddenly became very defensive.

"No, no, I see you likee her. You always talking about how she this and that. You acting like a crazy teenager!"

"Really?" Locke asked. "You worry me sometimes, Taiki. Focus on what's happening now. She's a vital ally to us, not a girlfriend."

Tokawa could feel Locke getting nervous.

A tremor shook the airplane. A small amount of smoke seeped into the cabin.

"Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. We're having engine trouble, but let me assure you that there is no reason to be alarmed. Please, ignore the smoke around you and remain seated. Thank you."

The people around Locke became nervous. Tokawa chortled. "Hey, you remember that TWA flight 800 crash? I heard on TV, they discover the crash was caused by frayed wire."

"So?" Locke said.

"I say wire frayed by missile explosion! Har har har har!"

"Ohh, that's hilarious, Taiki. Especially now that we're all going to die. Oh, well. It certainly adds problems to our plans."

A second tremor shook the airplane.

"Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. The plane is going down. We don't know the cause of the engine trouble, it appears that a passenger has-"

The pilot's voice was drowned out by loud static.

People panicked. Men and women screamed and leapt out of their seats. Terror seized the passengers. Vincent Locke and Taiki Tokawa sat calmly in their seats. Locke's eyes darted around the cabin. His gaze met the only other person on the plane who was also sitting quietly. He was a large man and a smirk broke across his face. He stood up and walked slowly through the crowd toward Locke. Locke looked into his eyes. They could only be the eyes of a Hunter.

The Hunter drew a short sword concealed beneath his clothing. Hunters were excellent when it came to sneaking large weapons through the metal detectors. Vincent Locke stood and faced the Hunter, though his own sword was stored neatly in the cargo hold.

"You won't get to France, Locke! We know of your plans." The Hunter spoke with unbridled anger. Locke said nothing. He looked into the eyes of the Hunter.

Taiki Tokawa leapt out of his seat and opened the overhead compartment. The Hunter attacked.

Locke jumped in the Hunter's way, trying to buy as much time for Tokawa as he could. The Hunter swung his weapon at Vincent. He dodged the attack as best he could and the Hunter's sword buried itself in an airline chair.

"You are inhumane enough to destroy all these people just to get me, Hunter?" Vincent's eyes darted around the baggage littering the floor. If only he could find something to defend himself with.

"I was ordered to kill you before you even got on the plane. I couldn't do it in time. What difference do "they" make in the long run as long as I succeed?" The Hunter drove his sword through Locke's shoulder. Locke tried hard not to cry out in pain.

"You are foolish, Vincent Locke. And let me assure you, O'Banian and the others are in as much danger as you are."

Locke struggled helplessly against the Hunter's sword. His blood-soaked hands tried desperately to hold onto the blade.

Twenty centimeters of rigid plastic burst through the Hunter's throat. His eyes widened and blood gurgled from his mouth. Taiki Tokawa stood behind him with his customised CIA "letter opener" through the Hunter's neck. The Hunter dropped his weapon, his body falling lifelessly to the floor.

xxxxxxxxxx

08 November 1999  
The French Coastline

Plane wreckage floated to the French coast. Police and civilians gathered debris on the beaches and attempted to identify the numerous bodies. Blood and baggage filled the foamy water. A longsword caught the eye of an investigator. He pulled the archaic weapon from the sand and examined its blade. It was in perfect condition, despite being in a plane crash. The investigator quietly slipped away from the scene with the sword. Farther down the coast, two men washed up onto a rocky beach.

Locke opened his eyes. He sat up and looked around him. Taiki Tokawa lay next to him.

"Good gods, what happened?" Locke examined his chest. His shirt was torn, but the wound on his shoulder had healed completely.

"The plane crash and we botha die."

Locke analysed his surroundings. There were no people around the rocky coast they had washed up on.

"We in ruck, Vincent. Thisa place looks deserted."

"Okay, Taiki, let's look at the situation. It's Monday evening, and we're somewhere along the French coast. We've got to go to, where is it?"

"San, Sain..." Taiki Tokawa struggled with the pronunciation of the words Saint-Vincent.

"Saint-Vincent, that's in Paris. Actually, we're going to Saint-Vincent de Paul Catholic Church. Well, that's a few days' walk. We have to get a ride."

Tokawa became alarmed. "We have to ride with the French people? Why not we just steal a car?"

"Either way, we'd better get moving now, Taiki. Judging by the position of the sun..."

Locke looked to the sky and mumbled something.

"Ahh. We've got to walk this way. East." Locke pointed his finger toward the horizon. "Wait a minute...where's my sword? Crap! It was on that plane."

"I sorry, but we must go now. We get you new sword." Tokawa attempted to comfort Vincent.

"No! That was Wraithblade! It was given to me by Guyuk Khan over two hundred years ago!" Locke screamed.

"Vincent, listen to me! There is nothing we can ado!"

The clouds rumbled. The air felt heavy on Locke's tired face. Taiki Tokawa stared into his friend's eyes. Droplets of water began to fall from the skies.

"You're right, Taiki." Locke looked at the ground. "But gods! Why now?"

Tokawa remained silent. There was nothing he could say or do.

Vincent Locke and Taiki Tokawa walked along the side of the road. The night sky was a blanket of ominous clouds. Both Immortals were soaked to the bone. The rain had washed them clean of the odiferous seawater. Tokawa saw a car light in the distance.

"Hey, Vincent. A car comes down the road. We need ride, but no one can know where we going."

Locke nodded and stuck his thumb out into the high beams. The pickup truck stopped and a man opened the door. Before he could even say anything, Tokawa grabbed the driver and tossed him out of the car. The driver landed by the side of the road while Locke and Tokawa climbed into the vehicle.

"I'ma really sorry, but we must take car!" Tokawa shouted out the window as he slammed his foot down on the gas. The driver watched as his pick up drove down the road, made a U-turn and again drove by him.

"Now that was just mean," Locke said sarcastically.

"Hey, but thisa way, we get to Paris in no time."

Locke looked at the interior of the vehicle. He saw a tape deck.

"Hey, Taiki, it's a tape deck." Vincent pushed the play button. Music played, and as always, Taiki attempted to sing along.

"Yar and all da girries say I pretty fry, for a white guy." Tokawa warped and distorted the lyrics. His stereotypical speech seemed to get worse whenever he sung in the car.

"For the love of the Gods, Taiki," Locke exclaimed. "Your oriental accent clings to you like Bill Clinton to a Whopper!"

"Yar he prays da field, and keep it rear," Tokawa answered.

xxxxxxxxxx

09 November 1999  
Paris, France  
Outside Saint-Vincent de Paul Catholic Church

O'Banian had wandered around the outside of the church four times now; hands shoved deep into the pockets of her coat. She stopped at the door, sniffed and looked around. So far she was the only one there.

_What if I'm the only one that shows up?_ she thought gloomily. _Hell, what if I'm the only one left?_ The thought of being the last of her kind did not sit well and she shook her head to clear the thought away.

She thought of the article she had read yesterday in the London Times. At least it gave her some satisfaction.

"In an ironic twist of fate, the family of a man recently found dead under suspicious circumstances perished last month in what appears to be a gang-related execution.

"Jean Hardley, thirty-four, and her daughter Paula, twelve, died at their London home from multiple gunshot wounds in the late hours of Saturday, the ninth of October. The house was then burned down, possibly to conceal the execution-style murders, by detonating the gas lines. The resulting blast destroyed the Bromsgrove house and severely damaged several others in the area. Six people were taken to hospital for treatment, one is reported in serious, but stable condition.

"This is the second tragedy to befall the Hardley family in as many months. Husband and father, Roy Hardley, thirty-five, was found dead in a remote area on the Isle of Skye two months ago on the nineteenth of September. Unconfirmed reports indicate that he had been shot.

"At this time police are remaining tight-lipped, saying only that they are looking into a possible link between both incidents. Fire officials on scene report that the initial investigation indicates the explosion was due to a leaky gas fitting and will give no information regarding the gunshot wounds. The inquiry continues."

O'Banian sighed and looked down, the toe of her boot playing with a small rock. Her eyes flickered to a billboard overhead advertising the newest feature film: The Messenger: The Story of Joan of Arc. She smirked ever so slightly. Another story of a revolutionary bringing fire to France, the same as she.

_Siobhan, open the bloody door - it's just a church for chrissake. You live in one!_

But it hadn't been the same thing, this was a working church, a real one. One where one was judged for one's deeds and actions. One where, in O'Banian's case, one's soul could be found wanting.

Finally, muttering an oath, she pulled the handle on the sturdy oak door and stepped inside.

xxxxxxxxxx

09 November 1999  
Paris, France

Taiki Tokawa parked the truck in a deserted parking lot. Both Locke and Tokawa hurried to leave the vehicle.

"How far isa Saint-Vincent from here, you think?"

"I don't know, Taiki. Not far, a block or two. But don't forget that we're going to that place. We've got to hurry or we'll be late."

Locke and Tokawa ran through the backstreets of Paris. The evening sky was cloudy and light rain splashed on Locke's face. His feet pounded into the puddles of water collecting in the streets.

All Locke could think about was Faaris, Frost, and O'Banian.

Locke and Tokawa rounded a corner. Standing before them was the Saint-Vincent de Paul Catholic Church. They had reached their destination. Locke fell to his knees and clutched the ground beneath him. Taiki Tokawa said a silent prayer. Tokawa helped Locke stand up and wipe the street grime from his clothes. They both walked towards the church.

As they moved, a heavy presence crept over them. Locke again cursed the loss of his sword and his inability to replace it. His hand moved to the gun he had taken from the truck's glove box, hoping it would be enough.

Both Immortals turned, eyes scanning the Paris street.

"Looking for me, gentlemen?" a deep, rumbling voice from behind then asked.

Tokawa and Locke turned, eyes growing wide as they looked over what had to be the largest man either of them had ever seen.

"Welcome to Paris," the giant offered. "I'm Omeir Faaris."


	22. Getting Burned

"Just say die and that would be pessimistic  
In your mind we can walk across the water  
Please don't cry it's just a prayer for the dying  
I just don't know what's got into me"

"Prayer for the Dying" - Seal

09 November 1999  
Paris, France

Inside Saint-Vincent it was dark, the evening light of the overcast sky outside filtering through the nearly two centuries old leaded windows. Candles supplied the only other light. The place was silent; the world outside was reduced to a muted nothingness.

O'Banian halted, trying to sense anyone else, again wondering if she was alone. She already knew what she would do if she were…she'd run. Standing up for herself was one thing. Standing completely alone was entirely another. She might be dumb, but she wasn't stupid.

After allowing her eyes to adjust to the darkness, she moved forward, noting the beautifully maintained oak pews that gleamed with fresh lemon wax. The smell tickled her nose, reminding her of her childhood. She slowly made her way up the aisle, suppressing the urge to drop to her knees and genuflect before the altar. Her eyes scanned the shadows for Patrick.

O'Banian ran one hand wearily across her eyes. The dull headache she had had since waking up on Wednesday morning was still bothering her. It was to be expected when one's brains had been splattered across the walls. The memory still made her shudder. She tried to remember the last time she had slept properly. Friday. Was it only four days ago? It seemed like a lifetime.

The murmur of voices dragged her back to alertness. There were three, no, four - all male. One was Patrick's - the rich Irish timbre of his voice unmistakable. He'd always had a voice that commanded attention - even as a child. She had listened to the stories he read to her, enchanted more by the sound of him than the story content. He had the same effect with his sermons, the congregation sitting spellbound.

"I'm sorry, I know nothing of these Immortals that you speak of. My son, I more than most are well aware that the Lord works in mysterious ways, but seriously. Do you honestly expect me to believe in people who live forever?" Patrick chuckled.

Hunters.

O'Banian looked around, searching for an escape route. Her eyes fell on a heavy, red velvet curtain at the back of the church. She suspected it covered the stairs to the choir balcony.

"Cut the bullshit, Father. You know about Immortals. Your sister is one. Siobhan O'Banian. To deny it will just make things that much harder for you." It was a nasal American accent, not quite New York but getting there. And getting closer.

"My sister, Siobhan, died in 1974 at the Guildford pub bombings." Patrick managed to sound indignant, and Siobhan smiled slightly at the Catholic priest's amazing ability to lie so well.

O'Banian moved hurriedly back down the aisle, careful not to make a sound. It crossed her mind that one of the four might be Immortal and able to sense her. She would have to keep her distance. She pushed aside the curtain. There was an archway to the right, leading back behind the church. Stone stairs rose in front of her, leading to the choir balcony above. Soundless, O'Banian climbed them.

She stopped at the sound of a crisp slap, flesh of hand meeting flesh of face.

"I told you, Father, that things would go easier if you told us the truth and I meant it." This voice was English, upper class and educated. "Now, the Immortal Council that is to meet here this evening, what is to be your role in it?"

"And I told you, I don't…" The sentence was cut off by the dull sound of a fist hitting a body and a deep "Oof."

O'Banian froze, her blood running cold.

"If you think that being a priest will protect you, Father, think again," another American accent warned, this one with a slight Texas drawl. "I've killed children and not thought twice about it. Killing an old priest won't even make confession for me."

Quickly, O'Banian climbed the stone stairs. She needed to be able to see what was happening. She didn't doubt that all four Hunters were armed and charging out from behind the curtain would only get her killed in a blaze of glory.

Once on the balcony, she dropped her bag, quietly unzipping it and removing her revolver. The front retaining wall was about a meter high and made of intricately carved stone. Unless she gave them reason to look up, she should be able to move behind it freely. Crouching down, she moved cautiously along the front, ducking low.

She had been wrong; there were seven of them, not four. And two of them were women. All sported long coats and severe expressions.

Patrick knelt on the floor. Four of the Hunters circled him, while the other three stood off to the side - taking notes or supervising, O'Banian couldn't be sure which. What she was sure about was that Patrick was in trouble. She could hear his raspy breath and low moans.

O'Banian muttered a Gaelic oath and checked her weapon. She had found the .357 Magnum under her bed, beside her sword. Someone had wanted her to know that they could have taken her head, but didn't. Although she had a very good idea who that someone was, she wasn't sure if she was relieved - or simply pissed off.

"All right, Father O'Banian, I will ask you one last time, then I let Juan here give it a try." The Englishman spoke again. "I should mention that Juan learned his trade during his stint in South America. One of those countries not exactly known for their upholding of human rights, if you catch my meaning."

A dark haired, olive skinned man to the left of the Englishman smiled, the humor not reaching his eyes.

She had to do something now - she couldn't just wait it out. Fitting the muzzle of the gun between the stone carving in the wall, O'Banian took a deep breath. She thought briefly about the injunction against Immortals fighting on holy ground and wondered if that applied to combat against mortals, as well. Still unsure, she called out.

"I don't think you'll be wanting to do that. Or human rights in South America won't be as much of an issue as the extra hole in your head. If you catch my meaning."

Seven heads swivelled towards the balcony and hands moved to the insides of pockets.

"Ah ah ah, I don't think so. I doubt you're reaching for your business cards. Hands where I can see them. All of you." She watched several pairs of eyes slide sideways, silently communicating with each other. "Aye, you're right, I don't have enough for all of you. But who wants to play Russian roulette with a crack IRA sniper?"

That halted the hands and the eyes. The group held a collective breath.

"Patrick, are you all right?" O'Banian asked the man still kneeling on the floor of the church. He looked up, his face pasty and damp.

"Yes, Siobhan, I think so." He struggled to his feet, weaving slightly. "I just feel…odd."

O'Banian chuckled. "Patrick, I thought I was the odd one in the family, don't be taking my place now."

Patrick O'Banian smiled weakly. He was a portly man in his late sixties. He put out a hand to the back of a pew to steady himself.

"Now, the rest of you. I'm sure you all came prepared…"

The sentence died when Patrick O'Banian dropped to the ground, one hand clutching his chest.

"Jesus Christ, Patrick?" O'Banian stood, eyes wide, attention diverted.

That gave the Hunters enough of a diversion. Guns were drawn, shots were fired.

O'Banian dove for cover behind the stone wall, a bullet ricocheting off the back wall and just missing her head. She hit the floor, rolling until she was behind the solid wall at the far side of the balcony. With a muttered oath, she looked back out, noting her gun on the floor several meters from her.

"Ms. O'Banian, glad you could make it. Perhaps you'd like to come down here before someone really gets hurt. I promise, if you cooperate, I'll cut clean the first time." It was a woman this time; the voice accented in German or Austrian, O'Banian wasn't sure which.

There was silence. O'Banian sat back, leaning against the cold stone wall of the church, trying to consider her options - of which there weren't many.

"Ms. O'Banian, I won't ask again." This time there was the unmistakable sound of a safety being released. "Your brother will die, right here - then we will come and get you. What is it going to be?"

O'Banian swore and pulled herself to her feet, shaking her head in resignation. "I'll come down. But call an ambulance for Patrick…and do it now." She waited a moment until the sound of someone speaking in French caught her ear. She heard the name and address of the church, then turned and made her way down the stairs.

She emerged from the velvet curtain to a seven-gun welcome - all Walther PPKs. O'Banian shook her head and laughed humorlessly. "Let me guess, you all think you're fucking James Bond."

A woman with blonde hair pulled into a tight bun on the top of her head glared. "It's the director's idea of a joke."

"Yeah, and I can see you're all laughing," Siobhan muttered.

The Englishman came toward her, grabbing her roughly by the arm and dragging her to the area in front of the altar. He pushed her to her knees, then reached down the back of her jacket, removing the Templar Sword. He moved, standing slightly to the left of O'Banian's left shoulder.

"Siobhan O'Banian." The woman with the accent stepped forward. "You have been tried by this tribunal of Watchers…"

O'Banian snorted. "Watchers? You're bloody Hunters. At least I can admit what I am. Are you too ashamed to admit what you are?" She eyed the woman defiantly, wondering if she would receive an answer.

The woman looked at her for a moment, then continued. "You have been tried by this tribunal and found guilty of crimes against humanity. As such you will be duly executed." With that, the woman nodded toward the Englishman and stepped away.

"You're not killing me because of any crime against humanity. You're killing me because I'm Immortal. At least have the guts to be honest. At least admit to what you are," O'Banian shouted. Her yells rained on deaf ears.

The Englishman stepped closer. "Ah," he sighed. "There is just something so...so...appropriate - in taking a head on holy ground. And with your own sword, too. Have fun in hell."

O'Banian glared up at him. "I'll be sure to say hello to Roy. No doubt we'll both end up in the same place and I doubt either of us will be sporting wings. We'll be sure to save you a place, Limey."

He lashed out with his fist, catching her across the jaw and knocking her to her side. Then he reached down, grabbing her by her long, red hair and dragging her back to a kneeling position. "I'm going to enjoy this, you stupid Irish bitch," he seethed.

O'Banian sneered at him. "Titim gan eiri ort!" (May you fall without rising!) she spat with a smile.

He snarled, and released her hair, drawing himself up to his full height.

O'Banian squeezed her eyes together, heart hammering in her chest.

Instantly, a presence swept over her, her eyes slamming open and her head coming up.

The first shot took the Englishman where he stood. The second, the blonde woman. Then pandemonium took over. Bullets flew, seeming to come from everywhere.

xxxxxxxxxx

The clock in the dash of the cab said five fifty-four and Erik Frost again peered out the window anxiously.

The driver saw his look. "Do not worry, monsieur, I will get you to Saint-Vincent by six sharp, I promise."

True to his word, the clock read five fifty-eight when the cab pulled up smoothly to beside the church.

Frost turned to LeFauve. "Guess this is it, then?"

She gave a pained expression and bit her lip. "Are you sure you won't change your mind. I have that ticket."

He shook his head. "I'm sure."

She smiled tightly. "Can't blame a girl for trying." She put her arms around his neck and pulled him close. "Be safe."

He nodded and, after a moment, pulled away. "Always am. And when it's all over, I just might need that holiday in Jamaica." Frost placed a soft kiss on her forehead, then exited the cab, not looking back when it drove away.

He took a deep breath, wondering just what kind of reception Michael Walker's message would receive. "Let's just hope they don't shoot the messenger," he muttered, pulling open the door of the church. The sound of a gunshot stopped him.

xxxxxxxxxx

O'Banian dropped to the ground, rolling to where Patrick lay unmoving on the church floor, eyes closed, face white. One second, he was lying there, his head resting on the cold stone of the church floor; the next, his head shattered in an exploding mass of brain tissue and blood.

"Noooooo!" O'Banian screamed, arm reaching out helplessly toward the priest. Flecks of cranial matter and blood splattered her face, hair and arm, clinging to her skin and clothing.

She scrambled up, ignoring the hail of bullets that bit into the wooden pews and stonework. Reaching the murdered priest, she slumped to the ground and cradled the limp body.

The church sat silent. Four of the Hunters lay dead or dying on the floor of the church. The others had taken cover.

O'Banian scanned the balcony choir; sure that that was where the shots had come from. She couldn't see anyone and she couldn't feel anyone anymore.

A few meters away from her, a Hunter lay, writhing in agony. He was young; O'Banian put his age at twenty-one at the most. One bullet had shattered his knee, and two more had struck his body. Blood trickled steadily from his wounds. He was dying and knew it.

One hand reached out toward O'Banian, clenching and unclenching. His eyes silently begged her to do something, to help him. O'Banian reached toward him, purposely missing his hand and grasping the gun he had dropped. She aimed it at the young man's head and pulled the trigger.

A thunderclap in her skull drove her to the floor again. Groaning in pain, she released the gun from numb fingers. She was racked with full-body spasms of agony, as if her very life were being drained from her. What the fuck is this? she wondered, shaking her head in delirium. The realization hit her just as quickly. Fighting on holy ground. So this is what happens. Oh, my God. This is awful.

"Bastard," she muttered at the nearby corpse, crawling across the floor toward the dead Englishman. He still clasped the Templar sword in his hand. She pried his fingers open, retrieving her sword.

She crawled back to her brother, and the hilt of the sword had just settled firmly into her hand when she simultaneously felt and heard the bullet. It caught her in the back, just below the shoulder blade, piercing muscle and shattering bone. A second one hit the base of her spinal cord and she fell forward, helpless, across the body of her brother.

Juan Santos stepped out from behind a thick stone pillar along the left-hand side of the church. His hand still held the Walther PPK. He assessed her coolly, noting her inability to move. Then he began to move toward her.

O'Banian was dying. She'd experienced it enough times to know, but this time she wondered if she would ever revive. Santos was coming toward her and his face told her that he wasn't coming to thank her for putting the young Hunter out of his misery.

O'Banian muttered a Gaelic oath and wondered what the hell to do. In the midst of her blasphemy, a heavy presence swept over her. This one was strong, stronger than anything she'd ever felt, even with the Immortal from whom she had taken the Templar sword. The thrumming of ancient drums filled her ears and enlivened her senses. She tried to crane her neck around to see from where the Immortal was coming.

There were two of them. One was tall and dark haired, his eyes nervously scanning the church. The other was a giant, easily dwarfing the other man, although he must have been over two meters tall. Both sported guns instead of swords. From the stunned expressions on their faces, they had experienced the same shock as she when they had fired upon the Hunters.

Santos saw the two Immortals and his footfalls faltered. Before he could say anything, a shot rang out, and Santos appeared to acquire a third eye, right between his other two. Soundlessly, he dropped to the floor.

The giant, stumbling and shaking his head as he approached, stepped over the bodies of the Hunters and came toward O'Banian. She was fighting for consciousness now, barely hanging on by a scant thread. It suddenly occurred to her that she might just have traded one devil for another. She was helpless, unable to move, her spinal cord, for the moment, severed. This giant Immortal could take her head, and there was nothing she could do about it.

The dark-haired one spoke impatiently. "There's only five bodies here. That leaves two unaccounted for. No doubt they've already called for reinforcements. Omeir, we need to get out of here." He moved from one body to the other, still trying to shake off the effects of his own pain as he pulled wallets from pockets, tucking them into his own.

O'Banian recognized the voice. Vincent Locke. She had called and informed him of the Hunters and told him of the meeting in Paris. His response had been hesitant and she hadn't really expected him to be there. Now, she was rather glad he was. At last, she noticed the Japanese man standing behind them. That must be Taiki Tokawa.

The giant knelt down beside her; dark brown eyes met hers. The drumming in her head had become louder. This was one of the ancients. What had Locke called him? Omeir. Omeir Faaris, O'Banian suddenly thought.

A tumble of voices down a passageway caught his attention. They were about to have more company - Hunter company.

Without hesitation Faaris drew himself back up to his full height. For a brief moment, O'Banian thought they were just going to abandon her to her fate. Then Faaris reached down with one arm and scooped her up, tossing her over his shoulder like a ragdoll.

The move produced pain, O'Banian could feel bone grate on bone in her shoulder and her back. Nausea swept over her and it was all she could do to remain conscious and hang on to the Templar sword clutched in her right hand.

Faaris ducked down into the low passage that led out behind the church. Slung over his shoulder like a sack, O'Banian took one last look at her brother's body on the floor of Le Saint-Vincent, and closed her eyes, welcoming death.

xxxxxxxxxx

Once outside the church, Locke and Faaris scanned the streets frantically. A black Range Rover pulled up beside the curb, David MacBane behind the wheel.

"Thought you might need a getaway car," he quipped, pushing open the passenger door. Faaris tossed O'Banian's dead body into the back of the Rover, Locke and Tokawa climbed in after. Omeir Faaris had just managed to haul his overly large frame into the front passenger seat when a shot ripped through the air, shattering the wing mirror.

"Get us the hell out of here, MacBane," the giant roared.

MacBane complied, flooring the gas pedal. The Rover disappeared down the narrow Paris street in a squeal of tires and a cloud of exhaust, but not before more bullets had been fired. One embedded itself in the tailgate, the other a side panel. A third shattered the back windshield of the SUV.

"Where are the others?" Locke asked, eyes scanning the street behind them, looking for a vehicle following.

"When we heard the shots I told them to take off. No point all of us getting killed." MacBane kept his eyes firmly on the road, slaloming through the heavy traffic. "I told them to meet me at Renaissance Paris Vendome Hotel.

"Why there?" Faaris questioned, placing one hand on the dash to steady himself as MacBane took the opportunity of a lull in the oncoming traffic to swerve into the oncoming lane and pass a slow moving delivery van.

"I'm staying there. It was the first place I could think of."

"What the blue fuck happened to us in there, Omeir?" asked Locke after a brief respite, his eyes wide. "When we shot at those Hunters, I thought I had been shot myself. I thought I was dying, too."

The giant shook his head slowly, his lips pressed together in thought. "It's just a guess, because I've never heard of anything like it happening before. Even in all of my long life. You know Immortals are forbidden from fighting on holy ground, right?"

Locke nodded. "Yeah, but I thought that was only against other Immortals."

"Apparently not," surmised Faaris. "It seems the rule is more generalized than that. We cannot fight at all on holy ground." Faaris turned his eyes toward the rain-drizzled window. "I think we were dying in there when we fired those shots. If we had been forced to fight for much longer, I believe our very Quickenings would have been extracted from our bodies, killing us eternally."

"My God!" exclaimed Locke.

A loud gasp from the backseat indicated O'Banian's return to the land of the living. She sat bolt upright, Templar clasped in one hand. She turned immediately, blade edge meeting the tender skin along the neck of Vincent Locke.

"Where the fuck am I?" she snarled.

Locke swallowed shallowly, eyes sliding downward and fixating on the blade at his throat. "I somehow envisioned you as being more grateful," he muttered.

"Put the blade down, Siobhan. Aside from the fact that myself and Vincent here just saved your ass, a Quickening in this small space would be a disaster," Faaris warned, his voice low. His hand slid to the shamshir at his side, a precaution in case the woman didn't listen.

Luckily - whether that luck be for her or for Vincent Locke is purely speculatory, she did. She rubbed one hand wearily over her eyes, remembering the scene in the church just before she died.

"Those bastards. I'll kill them, every stinking one of 'em," she hissed, slamming her hand down again and again against the razor edge of her sword, not caring or feeling the lacerations she was making.

Locke reached out one hand, placing it over O'Banian's now mutilated, but quickly healing palm. "I'm sorry about Patrick. I promise you they will pay," he told her softly.

O'Banian nodded silently, then brought her legs up, hugging her knees against herself and laying her head on top. "Aye, the bastards will. I'll see that they do if I have to die myself doing it.""

The journey progressed in uneasy silence.

xxxxxxxxxx

They ditched the Rover at the metro station, choosing to backtrack to the hotel to avoid being followed. In an effort to cover the bloodstained clothes she wore, O'Banian had donned Locke's longcoat. She now struggled not to trip on the overly long ends of it, swearing a blue streak when she wasn't successful.

Eventually, the group arrived at Renaissance Paris Vendome Hotel, making their way to the suite MacBane had taken on the sixth floor.

"Who in their right mind comes to Paris incognito then takes a suite, a suite, at the Renaissance Paris Vendome," muttered Omeir Faaris when the elevator opened.

"Who the hell can afford it?" added Locke.

"I didn't register in my name. How much of an idiot do you think I am?" MacBane retorted. "As for the cost. I, unlike some, have invested through the years." He shot a glance at Vincent Locke. "I realised long ago that one of the things an Immortal was going to need if he was going to live forever, was money. And I made sure I had some… lots, actually. And, as far as a suite, Darmond and I have reserved the entire floor for us, not just one suite."

MacBane knocked on a polished oak door, one of only six in the hallway.

There was a silence. The presence of several Immortals washed over them, followed by the sound of whispered voices behind the door. "Who's there?" a voice finally asked.

"It's me, Hewett. David MacBane. Open the door."

There was the immediate sound of a bolt being shot back, then the door was flung open. The Immortals wandered in, Omeir Faaris giving one last sweeping look around the hallway before closing the door, locking it firmly behind himself.

The suite was luxurious. Beautifully maintained antique furniture, expensive artwork on the walls, handwoven Persian rugs on the floor. Vincent Locke looked around and gave a low whistle.

"So, this is how the other half lives, huh?"

"A few wise investments and you too could be living like this, my friend," MacBane offered.

O'Banian looked around the room, eyeing the other Immortals suspiciously. There were fourteen others aside from her, Locke, MacBane and Faaris - ten men and four women.

Erik Frost caught her look. "This is everyone. We were at the church on time, but we scattered when we heard the gunshots and came here. Funny to see Immortals running from guns." The look on his face said that he had, in truth, found nothing humorous about it. "I'm Erik Frost. I was supposed to be your student. We've only spoken on the phone, though." He gave a half smile, not sure now that they were face-to-face, what to say to her.

O'Banian relaxed a little, easing off Locke's coat and tossing it onto a chair. "Aye, and when this mess is cleared up, you will be my student, Mr. Frost. Have no fear. I, for one, have no intention of letting these bastards take my head."

"Perhaps it would be a good idea if we introduced ourselves," suggested David MacBane. He gave his name and his current place of residence. The introduction continued around the room. Hewett Penn, Michal Batakova, Michael De Lioncourt, Emily LeFitte, Ruth Okin, Marton Razumov, Darmond Bilsby, Aaron Pittmann, and James MacNauton. Omeir Faaris. Taiki Tokawa. Siobhan O'Banian. Vincent Locke. Erik Frost. Marton Razumov. Maria Giovanni. Sergei Tuppankovich. Julian and Fiona Black.

The last four were new to O'Banian. She recognized the others, had even met some of them on occasion, but she had never heard of Maria Giovanni or Sergei Tuppankovich. Neither had most of the others.

A tall, thin man with black hair and eyes, and a thick black beard, Tuppankovich was decidedly Russian, a fact that seemed to unsettle Vincent Locke. When pressed, Tuppankovich explained he had been valet to Czar Nicholas and had died on July 17, 1918, along with the Czar, his wife, Alexandra, and their five children. He and the family had been herded into a cellar room by their Bolshevik captors and killed in a fusillade of bullets and stabs from bayonets. Tuppankovich had been forty-two at the time.

He had awoken in the woods where his murderers were digging a makeshift grave in which to burn and bury their victims. Tuppankovich had crawled away, unsure as to why he lived, but not willing to give his captors a second chance to kill him. After a year of wandering he had stumbled upon his teacher, Patrick Grisham. Since then his life had followed the same, similar pattern as the rest of them - wandering, fighting, surviving.

Grisham had been the one to tell Tuppankovich of the convening of the Council. Grisham himself sided as a silent partner with David Ashton, an old friend. Sergei wasn't so convinced that Ashton's somewhat reserved action was the correct one. His mortal death had taught him that unless rebellions were quelled swiftly and completely, they quickly got out of hand.

"Sometimes innocents have to die," he reasoned, "for the betterment of all."

"And what about you?" Marton Razumov inquired of the woman.

Maria Giovanni was a small, slightly overweight woman with heavy, dark hair swept up into a loose chignon. Despite the artful make-up she wore, her olive skin was marked and pitted. Her eyes were heavy lidded, giving her a permanent sleepy appearance. She was Italian, and not so forthcoming as Sergei Tuppankovich. She did tell them that she had died in March of 1812 during the siege of Bardajoz. What she refused to explain was what an Italian woman was doing in a Spanish town, or which side of the battle she had been on - the French, the Spanish or the English. Vincent Locke later commented to Tokawa, and David MacBane concurred, that Maria Giovanni had more than likely been a spy - for all three countries. Which one caught and finally executed her was a matter of opinion.

When asked who her teacher had been, or how she had come to know of the Council, Maria had told them she was a friend of Dasmius Mikal and he had asked her to join them. James MacNaughton piped in.

"I can vouch for her, I think. The Immortal who took Dasmius's head, Wallace Frazier, sent me some of his effects a few days before we left England. One of the items was a notebook of his. Maria's name, address, and email information were listed in it."

Giovanni nodded and then added, "And, as far as my teacher, that is none of your business. All you need to know is that I am more than able to hold my own and was more than ready to kill, if necessary."

A blonde woman sitting on a rose-colored loveseat next to a well dressed, blond man flinched visibly at Giovanni's words. The man immediately apologised. "I'm sorry. Fiona is new to this, and she's finding it all rather terrifying." He placed an arm around the woman comfortingly. "I'm Julian Black, and this is my wife, Fiona. We heard of the Council through Michael De Lioncourt."

Vincent Locke reached forward and shook the man's hand. "How long has she been Immortal?" he questioned, wondering what use a new Immortal could be.

There was a heavy silence, every eye slowly turning toward the Blacks.

"I'm not…I'm…" the woman stuttered.

"She's not Immortal," Julian Black finally offered. He had bargained, obviously successfully, that with so many Immortals in one room, the lack of a buzz from his wife wouldn't be missed.

"Then just what the hell is she doing here?" O'Banian asked.

"She's my wife," Black responded.

"No! She's a fucking liability, that's what she is!" O'Banian hurled.

Fiona Black recoiled from the words. "I couldn't just sit at home and wonder what had happened to Julian. I couldn't. I won't get in the way. I'll stay wherever you put me, but I'm not leaving. I'm not."

"Then you'll more than likely end up dead," the Irishwoman coolly informed her.

Omeir Faaris laughed, bitterly. "Unless we start to do something," he said, "we'll all more than likely end up dead." He dropped into another loveseat; the twin to the one the Blacks were on. His giant frame filled the furniture, making it look like a regular chair.

All were silent for several minutes, alone with their thoughts. Faaris went over in his mind all his dealings with the Watchers over his life. There were not many and all of them were simply the hearing of rumors about such people. He had known Gilgamesh, the Immortal who, in some ways, was responsible for the Watcher organization existing at all.

He remembered in precise detail all the events of his life, perhaps the reason he did not suffer, as many of the ancients did, the effects of millennial life on the mind, the memory. He remembered his early life as a mortal. He remembered taking his first head. He remembered his ancient teacher, who might still live, the Immortal Athar-Tauran, a giant taller and mightier in form and power even than he, who remembered the ancient days that had become only legend, or even myth, among the younger Immortals.

His mind had wandered. Faaris shook his head, cursing. He scanned again his memories, recalling all the information he knew about the Watchers. He knew that, contrary to what these young ones believed, the phenomenon of the Hunters was not a new one. They had existed before, it was the curse of the organization. They could weed out those elements, but always they would return, in the fullness of time. Four thousand years had the Watchers existed. It was incredible, even to him. He sighed and glanced about at the others gathered there.

They were all so young. They did not truly know what it was they faced, not even O'Banian. Her anger, her rage, had turned to madness in her. She was unstable. But she had a power to direct this group. He had not lost the fire of his spirit he had possessed as a mortal and as a young Immortal. But wisdom had tempered it. And he knew the price for being a leader of men. He could see the doom written for Siobhan O'Banian. He feared that they were all being drawn into it. She had the talent, the charisma, to lead, and the fire and the passion to direct their course, to order events, a power possessed by few even of the ancient ones.

Two thousand years ago, Faaris had met an Immortal once named Marcus Nautius, whom he had learned a decade ago now went by the name of David Ashton. Recalling what he knew of Nautius - or Ashton - then, Faaris knew this man had the leadership attributes he saw in O'Banian, as well, and had also the knowledge and wisdom of the centuries, the millennia. A match even for Omeir Faaris himself. O'Banian by contrast to the two of them was young. She did not know what time could do. He shook his head and sighed again.

At last, it was he who broke the silence. When he spoke, all turned toward him. He was a figure of awe, both in the obvious might of his physical form, and in the power held within it, that all others could feel like a raging fire. "What the hell happened back there, Siobhan?"

Briefly, she told them, trying not to think of the image of her brother's destroyed head as it lay on the floor of his church. Each in turn told of their arrival at the church, filling in the gaps up until they were now assembled.

"So now what we do?" Tokawa asked when everyone had finished.

"Now we go after the bastards," O'Banian hissed. "Vincent, you picked up their wallets. I want to know their names and I want to know their addresses." She gave him a look that indicated that while she was asking, if he didn't comply then she wasn't above taking. He pulled the wallets from his coat pockets, tossing them onto the low Louis XIV table that served as a coffee table.

O'Banian read out the names. "Pierre Garneau, Marta Ljevaja, Juan Santos, Emil Halbert, Brad Rushton." She smiled coldly. "Well, I hope the Garneau, Ljevaja, Santos, Halbert, and Rushton families have their life insurance paid off."

"Why? What are you going to do?" Erik Frost had sat rather silent until now, unsure of his role in the Council. Unsure he really wanted to be here. The only thing he was sure of was that he didn't want to be dead.

He was of two minds. Hunters had killed his wife, Kendra, an innocent mortal whose biggest crime was to fall in love with an Immortal. For her murder alone, he wanted the Hunters dead. But he was having a difficult time accepting the idea of complete eradication of the Watchers. He had the feeling that in killing all of them, he would be no different than the Hunters.

O'Banian looked at him. "I'm going hunting."

"Before you go, Siobhan," said MacNaughton, pulling her aside. He did not lower his voice and the others in the room heard him clearly. "There is one person who is not here that I think you should meet. He is in the room over there. I'll bring him out."

MacNaughton opened the door to an adjoining room and motioned for its occupant to join them. A tall, blond man with long hair and a short beard emerged, a pleasant, though somewhat quizzical, smile on his lips. He was dressed in loose fitting, stylish clothing and seemed perfectly at ease among the group of strangers.

"Everyone," MacNaughton announced, "this is Karl Eichmann. I wanted to wait until everyone was settled before introducing him to the group. I've briefed Karl on what we're doing and I think he will be an excellent addition to the group."

"And why is that?" questioned O'Banian.

"Karl possesses skills that are exactly in line with what we need for our particular mission," replied MacNaughton.

"Why don't ya let the man answer for himself," said O'Banian, crossing her arms.

Eichmann chuckled lightly as if he had been challenged to a game of grade school trivia. He took a step forward and replied to her inquiry.

"I am a man who can make your problems disappear, little lady," he stated with complete confidence. "No matter what or who it is."

"You're a hitman," Penn deduced from his response.

Eichmann's smile grew. "Yes. Very good. I see there's no need to mince words with you people."

"So you would have no problem with what we intend ta do, then?" asked O'Banian.

"None," answered Eichmann flatly. "But I do tend to work better if left to my own devices. I don't particularly care for committees." He scanned the room's other occupants as he said this. "But if you're looking to cause chaos among this Watcher Organization of yours, I'm your man. Just give me a path and set me loose."

O'Banian smirked at the tall German. "Alright, Mr. Eichmann, I'll give ya a chance to prove yerself. I've got a list of addresses of targets in this city that I've already singled out. You can take 'em and run wild. I'll let ya have a few people ta help ya, too." Eichmann nodded to her. "All I ask is that ya stay in communication with us about yer movements and actions. We don't want ta get in each other's way."

"That's a reasonable request. I accept."

O'Banian scanned the suite for a moment. Spotting what she wanted, she walked over to the two captured Watcher laptops. Next to them was her notepad from England. She flipped through the pad until she found the page she wanted and tore it off. Picking up the computer taken from the Hardley family, she returned to Eichmann.

"Here ya go. This is one of the Watcher's computers. It will give you inside information to what they're doin'. This sheet has the names an' addresses of the families I've identified as targets. Take them and do yer thing."

Eichmann took the computer and note sheet with a grin. He nodded again. "I'll do great things with these," he said.

"Talk to Darmond over there about gear. He'll get ya set up with weapons and other items. Now, for yer men. Three ought to do fer ya." She turned her gaze to the others in the room. "Any volunteers or should I pick folks?" she asked.

"I'll go," replied Erik Frost, raising his hand tentatively.

"Are ya sure, Erik?" O'Banian queried him. "Yer still kinda new to the Immortal world."

"Yeah, but not entirely new. I've been immortal for about ten years and I know my way around guns, at least. I am from Texas, after all. I'll be fighting Watchers and other mortals, too, not Immortals so that shouldn't be a problem. I'm willing to go."

"Alright," replied O'Banian, nodding. "Who else?"

"Count me in," said De Lioncourt. "I'm very familiar with Paris and the surrounding areas. I should be able to help out quite a bit."

"Good," commented O'Banian. "One more."

"That will be me, then," stated Marton Razumov, his hand rising. "I owe many of you for your help in the past so I am willing to do anything that advances that cause."

"Thank you, Marton," grinned O'Banian. She turned back to Eichmann. "There you go, Mr. Eichmann. Take yer little detachment and raise some hell."

With another grin, Eichmann replied, "You can count on that."

xxxxxxxxxx

09 November 1999  
Paris, France

The call was made as soon as the Immortal was able to make a reasonable excuse for leaving the hotel suite. David Ashton answered the cell phone on the second ring.

"Ashton."

"She's at it again," the caller whispered.

Ashton's face became serious. "Who are the victims this time?"

"Families of the Hunters who killed her brother in the church today. I think she's going after Emil Halbert's family first. They're here in Paris."

"When and where?" Ashton demanded, reaching for a pen and a piece of paper.

"I don't know, just tonight. She says she's going alone - doesn't trust the rest of us to be quiet enough, although Locke has her just about talked into letting him come. Halbert lived on Rue de Montagne. Number nine."

David Ashton swore loudly. While he more than supported the idea of an Immortal Council convened to deal with the Hunters, he was decidedly against the fanatical faction's intent on destroying the Watchers and their families completely. Siobhan O'Banian seemed to be on a one-woman crusade to complete such a task.

Ashton thanked his contact, reinforcing the need to be safe and not to take chances, then he terminated the call. He had hoped for a quiet night of unpacking, but that would have to wait. Tonight, he had to attend to business and to protect lives.

xxxxxxxxxx

09 November 1999  
Paris, France

In another secluded area of the hotel, a similar call was being made, this one to Hunter headquarters.

"Hello?"

"I'm in."

"Any problems?"

"No, not so far. Numbers are low, but more may show up."

"Where are you?"

"Renaissance Paris Vendome Hotel. Sixth floor. Can you believe - the entire floor" The caller chuckled humorlessly.

"Bastards," was the only response.

"O'Banian's going after Halbert's family tonight."

Silence.

"Did you hear me? I said O'Banian is going after…"

"I heard you the first time."

"Aren't you going to do something about it? Protect them?"

"Emil is dead. His family is just dead weight pulling money from the Organization. Besides, O'Banian going after the families of dead Hunters will just infuriate the other faction more. With any luck they'll kill each other."

"But Halbert's wife… His children."

"You are paid to do a job, not question the dictates of those above you. Worry about your own life, not that of some miserable, fat Frenchwoman and her screaming brats. Continue to monitor the situation. Keep me informed."

With that the phone line went dead.

xxxxxxxxxx

09 November 1999  
Charles de Gaulle Airport

Angela Carson tapped her foot impatiently and watched the baggage carousel go around for what must have been the one-hundredth time. If Air-France had lost her luggage, she'd have someone's head. She thought about that statement and giggled a little to herself, earning a rather stern look from the elderly gentleman beside her.

Finally, the huge black canvas carryall with the Mickey Mouse stickers came through and Carson lugged it off the carousel. Now she just had to hope and pray customs didn't search it. It would be rather awkward to explain why she was carrying a sword into the country.

The customs officer had given her the once over, more interested in her figure than in her luggage, then waved her through. With a sigh of relief, Angela Carson hauled the bag onto her shoulder and exited into the public part of Charles de Gaulle Airport. Now all she had to do was find a phone and call the number she had been given.

xxxxxxxxxx

In the end, O'Banian went alone, telling Locke, Faaris and the rest of them that she preferred it that way. That way if she got caught, the fight would still go on. But she really didn't have any intention of getting caught.

The street was deserted when she got there. Somewhere in the distance, a lone dog barked. She was dressed in black from head to toe, having had to raid Locke and MacBane's wardrobes for clothing. It was all impossibly large on her, but it would have to do.

She casually walked up the street, eyes scanning for movement but finding none. The gas leak story had worked so well in Bromsgrove that she planned to use it again here. Finally she came to the front of number nine. First she took a good look at the garden, searching for signs of a family dog. Finding nothing she easily vaulted over the low wooden gate, not using it for fear of it being rusty and making noise.

Silently, she made her way round the back of the house, careful to keep to the shadows. The backdoor was as she'd hoped - glass paned. Lovely to look at, easy to access. She pulled the glass cutter and the putty from her pocket, affixing the putty to the windowpane nearest the doorknob. Just as she was about to start cutting, a presence and a voice startled her.

"I don't think you want to do that, Ms. O'Banian."

She whirled around, almost dropping her small flashlight and the glass cutter. The glare of a stronger flashlight caught her full in the face and she brought her hand up to ward off the brilliance. She couldn't make out who was behind the light, only that it was a man and that he was, compared to her, quite tall.

"Who the bloody hell are you?" she hissed, careful to keep her voice quiet.

"Oh, you don't have to whisper. There's no one home. I made sure of that. In fact, I managed to arrange for the entire street to be vacant. You can blow the whole of Rue de Montagne to kingdom come, but all you will destroy are houses."

"You should learn to mind your own business. Put the torch down and we'll see just how brave you are with a sword in your hand," O'Banian challenged.

The man chuckled. "You are bold; I'll give you that much. You remind me a bit of a friend of mine."

"Och, a friend? Pay him, do you? Or does he just feel sorry for you, like?"

The man chuckled again.

"Are you going to fight me or just stand around laughin' yer fool head off all night?" O'Banian asked, growing weary of standing there with the light shining in her face. The headache she had been fighting for two days was returning in full force.

"I'm not going to fight you, not this time. This time I'm going to give you a chance. This time I'm just going to shoot you."

The last word died on his lips and O'Banian felt a sharp pain in her chest, realising instantly that, for the second time that day, she had been shot, the suppressed sound of the pistol barely registering in her ears. "Bloody hell!" she managed to gasp just before her knees gave way and she slid to the ground.

"Oh, I'm sure where you're going, Ms. O'Banian, it will be a bloody hell." The man clicked off the flashlight and dropped it into the deep pocket of his coat. Carefully, he removed the glass cutter from O'Banian's hand and the Templar sword from her back. Then he hauled her over his shoulder, whistling cheerfully as he carried her down the street.

I'm starting to feel like a sack of bloody potatoes, O'Banian thought bitterly as she lugged along. She wasn't dead, but it was coming. She could feel the life slowly ebbing out of her. Resistance, she knew, was useless. He would only shoot her again. And it was important that she figure out who he was. Then she could go after him.

Upon reaching the Explorer O'Banian had rented, the man opened the door and dropped the woman's body into the driver's seat. He tossed her sword into the back, well out of her way in her weakened state.

"I'd sit there and sleep it off for awhile, if I were you," he told her. "Dying while driving is never a very good idea." He started to close the door, then hesitated. "By the way, S' misw Daibhidh Ashton." (I'm David Ashton)

He slammed the door shut and leaned in through the open window. "Now, if you are a very smart girl, and I think you can be smart when you want to be. If you're smart, you'll heed my warning and leave innocent people alone. If you are stupid, and I know you can be stupid, you'll continue on with this little vendetta. And if you do that, Ms. O'Banian, be warned, I will take your head."

O'Banian muttered Gaelic oaths enough to make a whole fleet of sailors blush, but with the life steadily draining out of her, she was in little shape to do anything more.

"Slan agat, (Good bye,) Ms. O'Banian," David Ashton answered. Then he turned away, picking up the same tune he had whistled while carrying her there. Siobhan O'Banian closed her eyes and slowly died.

xxxxxxxxxx

She awoke a few hours later to the sound of her cell phone ringing. Still disoriented, she answered it, her voice thick and muddled.

"Hello?"

"Ms. O'Banian?" a young woman's voice asked tentatively.

"Yeah. Who the hell is this?"

"It's Angela Carson. Your student. You told me to meet you in Paris, remember?"

O'Banian sat up abruptly, mind reeling. "I thought that wasn't until the eighth?"

"Ahem, that was yesterday," the voice on the other end of the line told her. "My flight arrived last night. I've been trying your phone for hours. You must have been out."

More out than you realise, thought O'Banian. "Where are you?" she said aloud.

"I'm still at the airport. I don't speak French very well and I didn't have anywhere to go."

O'Banian sighed. "Stay there. I'll pick you up in about an hour. And Angela?"

"Yeah?"

"Whatever you do, don't talk to strangers."

Angela Carson hung up the phone in Charles de Gaulle airport thinking that she had just done exactly that.

xxxxxxxxxx

Vincent Locke paced the floor of the hotel suite, just as he had for the past hour. He occasionally varied his journey by looking out the window.

Omeir Faaris sat on the couch, sharpening the edge of his blade. It was an ancient blade, an acinaces, forged ages ago from the metal of a star that had fallen from heaven, or so he had thought at the time. Thus, in an age when iron was unknown, when men fought with bronze, or copper, or even stone weapons, he fought with the strength of a steel that even now in modern times could not be made. His mentor, Athar-Tauran, had taught him the art. The blade had held up well over the millennia since its creation, due to the nature of the metal and method of its forging. He did not look up at Vincent Locke but continued to work the blade as he said, "Your pacing won't make her come back any sooner. If she's coming back at all, that is."

Locke halted in his pacing and shot Faaris a dark look. "You think they've got to her?"

The giant shrugged, not committing himself either way. O'Banian had been gone all night. Calls to her cell phone had gone unanswered. Paris newspapers and television mentioned nothing of a house fire. Something had gone wrong."

Faaris had seen many Immortals perish over the millennia. The young ones struggled to survive the first century or two. That was the dangerous time. O'Baniann was not even that old. She was still within the limits of her mortality, but she fought even then with a rage and power that many older Immortals did not possess. He would mourn her, in his own way, if she had perished. He would avenge her death, if need be, but he could not have stopped her. Destroyed her, certainly, but he could not bend her to his will. She had been rash, yes. It had been foolish, dangerous, to go alone.

Faaris considered the young Irish woman. What made O'Banian an effective leader was her fire and her rashness. The others followed her.

"What if they have got her - what if she's dead?" Locke muttered.

Faaris said nothing for a moment. He looked up for the first time and studied Vincent Locke for a moment. He was a strange one. Over four hundred years old, yet he had not the spirit usually possessed by one of his years. He'd gained little wisdom or knowledge in that time, or so it seemed. Omeir Faaris knew better than to underestimate him, though. Immortals like Vincent Locke were as dangerous as those overtly powerful.

"We keep on. We continue our purpose to kill all Watchers. No matter who dies, the mission must continue." He knew it sounded cold, but it was the truth. He couldn't have stopped O'Banian, short of killing her. If she died, all that was left to them was to continue the fight, to avenge her death, as empty as it would leave them in the end. To achieve what she had desired most, an end to the Hunters, and end to the Watchers themselves. It was necessary. Faaris did not look up again or break from his work now, his eyes trained completely on his weapon.

Locke was saved from answering by a sweeping presence and a knock on the door. He hurriedly went to answer it. Faaris set aside his acinaces and lifted his massive shamshir from the floor. Locke turned to him briefly and Faaris nodded. He readied the weapon.

Locke opened the door and said, after a momentary pause, "Where the hell have you been? And who the hell is she?" O'Banian and another Immortal woman walked past him into the suite.

"Hi, I'm Angela Carson." The young woman grinned engagingly and struck out her hand. Locke found himself shaking it before he realized what he was doing.

"She's my student," O'Banian explained, dropping wearily onto the couch, rubbing the back of her neck and wondering just how much longer that part of her anatomy would remain in one piece. She'd had more close calls in the past few weeks than she'd had in the past year - and she was starting to weary of it.

Omeir Faaris was less than pleased. He set down his shamshir and stood. He said, darkly, "Your timing for taking another student is a little bit off." He gave Carson a dark glance, stopping her from offering her hand to him.

Carson's eyes widened and she swallowed slowly. This was quite possibly the largest man she had ever seen. He was tall and massively muscled, yet strangely did not appear heavy and bulky, a slow and clumsy warrior. The look he had just given her was positively ferocious. The smile slid from her face and she quietly moved to the window, dropping the bag and taking a seat in one of the barrel chairs around an oak table.

"Where are the others?" O'Banian asked, suddenly realizing that the suite was mostly empty.

"They went for breakfast. What happened? We expected you back hours ago," Locke asked again.

O'Banian leaned forward on the couch, placing her elbows on her knees. Not quite sure why she did it, she held back on all the details.

"Things just weren't right at the house," she said, casually adjusting her position so her jacket further concealed the bullet hole in her shirt. "I jus' sat in the Explorer and watched it fer a while waitin' fer an opportunity but it never came. Angela called me while I was sittin' there."

Faaris had returned to his work on his blade, and continued this through the short explanation. Now he stopped, setting the whetstone aside. "Well, I suppose that means we can carry on as before."

"Even with our new addition," Vincent Locke concluded, glancing at Carson.


	23. Bitterness That Lasts

Author's Note: The French police use a rank / title system that would be clumsy and confusing, especially when applied against existing ranks also used in this story, so I have applied British-style police titles to the French law enforcement characters mentioned here.

Chapter 22  
Bitterness That Lasts

"Say it loud, say it clear  
You can listen as well as you hear  
It's too late when we die  
To admit we don't see eye to eye"

"The Living Years" - Mike and the Mechanics

10 November 1999  
Paris, France  
Saint-Vincent de Paul Catholic Church

Detective Sergeant Claude Lebeau walked slowly through the bullet-ridden chaos that was Saint-Vincent. His teammates, including his partner, Charles Palen, all waited in the back of the church as he made his rounds. They knew not to disturb Lebeau when he was _listening._ The six bodies strewn about Saint-Vincent had a story to tell and he was letting them speak to him.

Though only twenty-six, Lebeau already had a reputation for being an oddity in the Paris police force, an effective one, but a little strange, nonetheless. He always seemed able to pick up on details, some on the force use the American term, _the vibe_, of a particular crime scene and tease facts from its evidence that others did not see. So effective in this _listening_ was he that he was often allowed to stroll through a scene before the crime scene technicians made their analysis of it. Usually, they confirmed what he hypothesized from the beginning.

Members of the police force, behind his back, of course, joked that Lebeau was destined from birth to become a detective. Born in 1972, his parents had been avid fans of the Frederick Forsyth novel, _Day of the Jackal_,which had been published the year before. They named their son Claude after the primary protagonist of the novel, Claude Lebel. As a result of the literary reference, the other members of the force often called Lebeau _Le_ _Chacal,_ the Jackal, sometimes even to his face. Though the moniker mildly irritated him, Lebeau did not complain about it, often laughing along with his coworkers when it was mentioned.

Lebeau stood at the front of the church, tapping his fingers on the altar absentmindedly, his eyes transfixed on the indentations on the carpet to the front of the golden table. There were two distinct circular prints there with two smaller ones just behind them, a set of footprints to either side. He pondered the meaning of this. Glancing up briefly, he motioned for Palen to join him with two quick flicks of his fingers. He then returned to his study of the prints.

"_Que penses-tu de cela?"_ (What do you think of that?) he asked when the junior detective sergeant arrived at the foot of the small staircase in front of the altar.

Palen regarded the prints for a few seconds, a hand on his chin. "Hmm," he mumbled. _"C'est presque comme un pénitent agenouillé devant l'autel, n'est-ce pas?"_ (It's almost like a penitent kneeling in front of the altar, isn't it?) Lebeau nodded. _"Les deux étaient la main sur la personne pendant la prière, peut-être?"_ (The two were laying hands on the person during prayer, maybe?)

"_Possible,"_ (Possible,) allowed Lebeau, _"mais d'une manière ou d'une autre, j'en doute moi-même."_ (but somehow I'm doubting it myself.) He squatted down and pointed at the two smaller indentations to the rear of the larger circular ones. _"Voir ces? Vous voyez comment le bon est plus grand et frotte le tapis à la droite de la personne agenouillée? C'est comme si celui qui était à genoux s'est enfui à la dernière minute."_ (See these? See how the right one is larger and scuffs the carpet out to the right of the kneeling person? It's like the one who was kneeling dove away at some last instant.) Lebeau pointed to the left at a few droplets of blood. _"Peut-être quand c'est arrivé."_ (Perhaps when that happened.)

"_Vous pensez que la personne qui se tenait à la gauche du pénitent a été touchée et que le pénitent s'est éloigné?"_ (You think the person who was standing to the left of the penitent was shot and the penitent leapt away?)

"_Je le pense."_(I think so.)

"_Pourquoi?"_ (Why?)

"_Ça, je ne sais pas,"_ (That, I don't know,) admitted Lebeau. _"Considérant que certains cadavres sont entre les mains de Walther PPK et que les obus sont éparpillés, il était peut-être sur le point d'être exécuté et cela a été interrompu."_ (Considering the Walther PPKs some of the bodies are holding and the shell cases scattered about, perhaps he was about to be executed and that was interrupted.)

"_Le prêtre, vous en pensez?"_ (The priest, do you think?) postulated Palen.

"_Possible. Cela aurait du sens. Si c'est le cas, le stress de l'événement l'a touché et il était sur le point de mourir de toute façon. Viens regarder ça."_ (Possible. It would make sense. If so, the stress of the event got to him and he was about to die anyway. Come look at this.) They walked over to Patrick O'Banian's body and knelt beside it. Lebeau pulled open the priest's shirt and pointed at the bruises on the old man's chest. _"Tu vois ces petites ecchymoses? Il avait une crise cardiaque et tenait fermement sa poitrine. Je pense qu'il était probablement en convulsion sur le sol quand il a été abattu."_ (See those small bruises? He was having a heart attack and was tightly clutching his chest. I think he was probably convulsing on the floor when he was shot.)

Lebeau paused, his eyes focusing on Father O'Banian's shoulder. _"Oh! Qu'avons-nous ici?"_ (Oh! What have we here?) he asked aloud. He reached down and picked up a long, red hair. Holding it up for Palen to see, he queried, _"Je ne me souviens pas de rousses parmi les corps. Le faites vous?"_ (I don't recall any redheads among the bodies. Do you?)

"_Non,"_ (No,) replied Palen, shaking his head.

"_Puis une femme rousse était avec le prêtre quand il est mort. Quelqu'un qui voulait des informations de lui, peut-être, ou peut-être quelqu'un qui se souciait de lui. Peut-être même un…"_ (Then a red-haired woman was with the priest when he died. Someone who wanted information from him, maybe, or perhaps someone who cared for him. Maybe even a…) Lebeau stopped, blinking. He stood.

"_Qu'Est-ce que c'est?"_ (What is it?) asked Palen.

"_Je viens d'avoir une pensée,"_ (I just had a thought,) said Lebeau, returning to the altar. Kneeling on the steps before it, he leaned in close to the carpet and eyed the floor carefully. He did not move for a full minute.

"Ah!" he finally cried out. _"Et c'est parti."_ (Here we go.) He pointed for Palen's benefit. Another red hair lay on the thick carpeting. _"La femme aux cheveux roux, quelle qu'elle soit, était celle qui était à genoux ici, pas le prêtre."_ (The red-haired woman, whoever she is, was the one kneeling here, not the priest.)

Lebeau stood and eyed his partner. _"Alors maintenant, nous avons une partie de l'histoire. Nous avons juste besoin de comprendre le reste. Ce que nous savons, c'est qu'il y avait au moins huit personnes, peut-être davantage, avec les PPK de Walther qui, pour une raison quelconque, tiraient sur un autre groupe de personnes avec des pistolets automatiques de 9 mm. Il y en avait au moins quatre. Ceux qui portaient des armes de 9 mm ont eu la chance de tomber sur ceux qui portaient le PPK et ont pu leur infliger de lourdes pertes, mais pas avant que le prêtre, le Père O'Banian, ait été tué. _(So now we have part of the story. We just need to figure out the rest. The part we know is there were at least eight people, perhaps more, here with Walther PPKs who, for whatever reason, were shooting at another group of people with 9mm automatic pistols. There were at least four of them. Those with the 9mm weapons got the drop on those with the PPKs and were able to inflict severe casualties on them, but not before the priest, Father O'Banian, was killed.)

"_Je pense que Saint-Vincent était censé être un lieu de rencontre pour ceux avec les pistolets de 9 mm et les gens avec les Walthers étaient ici pour les prendre en embuscade. L'embuscade a mal tourné et le principal élément de ceux qui étaient réunis est parti comme ils l'avaient fait, à travers la porte arrière avant. Nous pouvons le voir par la traînée de douilles et de sang. Au moins l'un d'entre eux a également été blessé."_ (I think Saint-Vincent was supposed to be a meeting ground for those with the 9mm pistols and the people with the Walthers were here to ambush them. The ambush went sour and the lead element of those who were here to meet left the way they came, through the back door. We can see that by the trail of shell casings and blood. At least one of them was wounded, as well.)

"_Avez-vous une idée de la raison pour laquelle l'embuscade a été organisée?"_ (Any thoughts as to why the ambush was set up?) wondered Palen.

Lebeau shook his head. _"Seulement que c'était censé être quelque chose de macabre. L'un des corps portait une machette et un autre une épée d'armement courte à proximité. Ils avaient certainement l'intention de faire un sale travail sur les corps de ceux à qui ils avaient tendu une embuscade après leur avoir tiré dessus. Nous en saurons plus après avoir identifié les corps."_ (Only that it was meant to be something grisly. One of the bodies had a machete and another had a short arming sword near it. They certainly intended to do some nasty work on the bodies of those they ambushed after shooting them. We'll know more after we identify the bodies.)

Palen nodded and knelt by one of the slain men, feeling through his pockets for a wallet. He frowned. He reached into each pocket and pulled out all of the contents, placing them on the floor by the body. Seeing no identification cards of any type, he moved on to the body of the woman, checking each of her pockets, as well. He had the same result. Seeing the problem, Lebeau joined him in checking the other bodies.

"_Un seul des cinq, Emil Halbert, a quelque chose qui les identifie,"_ (Only one of the five, Emil Halbert, has anything that identifies them,) said Lebeau. _"Et aucun d'entre eux n'a de portefeuille."_ (And none of them have wallets.)

"_Quelqu'un les a pris, alors,"_ (Someone took them, then,) said Palen, _"probablement les personnes qui les ont tués."_ (probably the people that killed them.)

Lebeau grunted in agreement. He didn't like the implications. It could only mean these killings were not a one-time incident. There would very likely be more.

xxxxxxxxxx

12 November 1999  
Winchester, England

The dark-haired man in flex-cuffs did not seem pleased with his accommodations, luxurious though they were. He sat in the armchair, his stiff leg outstretched, and scowled at the three men in front of him as if wishing they would burst into flames. Honnecker grinned at this.

"Not happy with the room, Mr. Moran? Shall I call for the presidential suite for you?" The general chuckled softly at his joke and awaited a reply from the Hunter.

"It's not the room," scoffed the Hunter. "It's the company."

"Oh, come now. Marion and Petrov here are good fellows. I've worked with them for many years. I'd trust them with my own children, if I could have them."

"Drop the funny talk, Honnecker," spat Moran. "I'm not in the mood. I'm here to be your prisoner, not your houseguest."

"Though that may be the case," replied Honnecker, his grin fading, "there is no need for us to not be gentlemanly about it. I intend to treat you with every courtesy and I expect the same from you, Mr. Moran. You have been kind enough to answer the questions put to you by my friend, Charles Ulrich, and for that, I am grateful."

"A moment of weakness on my part," muttered Moran.

"Regardless," continued Honncker, "you are now under our protection for the foreseeable future. Except for leaving this suite, you are free to move about. Mr. Marion and Mr. Petrov will stay with you to insure your safety."

"And when Werner Heinz comes for me?"

"They will protect you."

"Ha! That will be a first. No one is safe from Heinz. No one."

Honnecker smiled. "If you believe that, then I recommend making good use of this hotel's selection of wines until he arrives. At least enjoy the moments you have until then."

Honnecker stood and looked down at the Hunter. "I may, at times, have additional questions for you. I expect the same cooperation from you then as you gave to Ulrich should those times arise."

"Hmph, don't count on it, Honnecker."

"We'll see. Have a pleasant day, Mr. Moran. Until we meet again." Honnecker turned and walked to the door. Petrov held it open for him. "Thank you, Petrov. See to his needs, please."

"Yes, sir."

xxxxxxxxxx

15 November 1999  
Paris, France

David Ashton sat in one of the few rooms of the house that was actually fully furnished, the dining room. Having just moved back to the place, he was still unpacking his belongings and getting himself established. The house staff, having just barely recovered from moving from Atlanta, were now getting themselves acquainted with the early twentieth-century mansion he called home in Paris. The constant moves were just as much of a jolt for the Minoan as it was for them.

Ashton glanced down the table at his visitors, Hotsuma Bentenrai, Jacob Forrester, Dalla Selbjorgsdottir, Turan Abjer, Dominic Ackart, Joseph Madsen, and Jonas Cartell. Immortals all, they were the first of two groups of reinforcements the Alliance could expect in the next few weeks. Pad Griffin would have the other group in Paris by the end of the week. Ashton smiled at the group in greeting.

"Thank you, everyone, for coming today. Since you all read my initial email, there is no need for me to go through any sort of introduction of the situation. I will just fill you in on what has occurred since that message went out in order to bring you up to present day.

"I mentioned the Hunters and the threat they pose to us. There is another element in the equation, as well. We also have a group of radical Immortals who call themselves the Council who are, in their own way, trying to fight the Hunters. The Council is being led by a young Immortal by the name of Siobhan O'Banian. The issue we have with them is their methods. They are attacking and killing everyone in the Watcher Organization, be they actual Watchers or families of Watchers. Their stated goal is the complete eradication of the organization with the thinking that if there are no Watchers then there are no Hunters.

"We are receiving tacit support from one Watcher, who calls himself PO2, a Navy term. He has dubbed us the Alliance, by the way, probably just to differentiate us from the Council. This individual provides us some limited information regarding the Council and the actions of the Watchers. It has been quite useful up to this point and has enabled us to make some very productive moves in the last few weeks.

"Going back to the Council, as I'm sure you can deduce, our primary problem with them is their extreme method of resisting the Hunters. If they fought the Hunters only, rather than killing Watchers and their families, we would be offering to ally with them. Instead, we find ourselves on opposing sides. Sadly, now we are dealing with a two-front battle, one with Hunters and the other with the Council. We must handle both before this conflict can be satisfactorily resolved. Are there any questions?"

Dalla Selbjorgsdottir raised a finger and spoke up. "I have no questions about the situation, only how we will be organized and what is the plan for moving forward?"

Ashton placed his hands palms down on the table and looked each person in the eyes as he replied. "We are currently all scattered about the city for security reasons. We have been awaiting your arrival before proceeding. Now that you are here, we can initiate the plan. That plan is primarily one of reconnaissance and, when good intelligence is found, exploitation via rapid strikes. We have a few worthwhile tidbits of information already and are working to make use of that data already.

"What we will do now is divide up into small cells and spread out across the city in search of both the Council and the Hunters. When we find them, or hints as to where they are, we will report it to General Honnecker who is manning our operations center, and then will prepare to hit any targets of opportunity. We will do everything carefully; this will not be a search and destroy operation. There are too many innocent lives at risk for that."

Everyone around the table nodded at this. Another Immortal, Turan Abjer, had a question.

"When will we know about the cell assignments?"

"I'll have that information for everyone in a day or two. Keep an eye on your email traffic for that. Everyone has secure email accounts and I will be communicating primarily through those means. That way communication can continue even if we have to move around, as long as we have our laptops, at least."

"Good enough," said Abjer.

"Do we have any information about this PO2 guy?" asked Jonas Cartell. "How do we know he's not a Hunter himself?"

"We don't," admitted Ashton. "All we know up to this point is one hundred percent of his data so far has checked out. Everything he has given us has been completely anti-Hunter and nothing has led us into any sort of trap."

"Yet," muttered Hotsuma Bentenrai darkly.

"Yes," stated Ashton. "Not yet."

xxxxxxxxxx

16 November 1999  
Paris, France

Brad Miller followed his team leader, Larry Singer, through the front door of the bungalow, his semi-automatic pistol held ready. Alex Corrigan was close behind him.

"What the hell?" they heard from the sitting room off to their right, a voice responding to the sound of the door being smashed inward. The question was joined by a feminine scream as the rear door was also hit by a small battering ram, Paul Grant and Tammy Ochoa stepping through the entrance.

The trio in the front of the house stepped into the sitting room to find a man rising to his feet in front of a couch. Behind him sat a white-faced woman, another scream rising in her throat. The man lunged at Singer, reaching for his pistol. The suppressed weapon fired. The man staggered and took another step. Corrigan fired again as the woman screamed.

"Can it," said Miller flatly, training his weapon at the woman's face. Beside him, Corrigan fired again, dropping the man to his knees. The woman's scream became a series of panicked wheezes.

Grant and Ochoa entered the room, their rapid search of the second story complete. "It's clear upstairs," reported Ochoa.

Miller glanced at the blonde woman. From the neck down, she had a striking, athletic figure. Above that, her acne-scarred face left much to be desired. She also smiled too much, typically at the wrong times. Mentally, Miller shook his head. Ochoa was a waste of a good body. With some training in decent manners as a child and the use of soap and water as a teen, she could have been a real beauty now. Instead, her face and attitude now detracted entirely from the goddess-like physique she sported, at least for him.

Miller turned back to regard the wounded man before them. The two bullets in his chest had slowed him, but not for long. Malik Naja would recover quickly. All Immortals did.

"Steel," ordered Singer.

Corrigan pulled a short sword from the scabbard at his hip. Both of Naja's eyes widened at the sight.

"No!" protested Ana, Malik's wife. "No, you can't do that."

"Oh, really, bitch?" asked Ochoa, stepping forward and taking the sword from Corrigan. "And who is going to stop us? You?"

Ana stood from the couch, approaching Ochoa tentatively.

"No," gasped Malik Naja, one hand on his chest and the other outstretched toward Ochoa. "Please, don't hurt her. Do what you like to me. Just let her go, please." He looked up at the Hunters pleadingly.

"Oh, I don't think so, Immortal," replied Singer. "Mortals who love Immortals are just as tainted as the likes of you." With that, he raised his pistol and fired once. Ana's eyes widened again, her hands going to the hole in her neck. She fell to her knees beside her husband.

"NO!" screamed Malik, turning to place his hands on his wife's shoulders. His eyes met those of his wife's, seeing the light dim in hers.

"And now you can join her," smirked Ochoa, stepping in and swinging the sword with a practiced hand. Malik Naja's head fell from his shoulders. His body and Ana's collapsed together onto the carpeted floor. Both bodies twitched for several seconds before finally lying still.

Brad Miller and the other four Hunters looked down at their handiwork, all absorbed in their own thoughts. Miller suppressed a shudder as he remembered a night three years ago. He and his wife in their little shop back home. An Immortal robber. Traveca's bleeding corpse on the floor. His own grief. His burning rage.

_Trav's death is how I was recruited into this. Am I really in the right? Is this what I should be doing to avenge her death?_

xxxxxxxxxx

Date: 17 November 1999  
To: Turan Abjer, Dominic Ackart, Hotsuma Bentenrai, Jonas Cartell, Eric Doyle, Darren Dublin, Jennifer Leslie Ellis, Jacob Forrester, Wallace Frazier, Paderau Griffin, Winter Kjellson, Joseph Madsen, Chris Pellier, James Pellier, Dalla Selbjorgsdottir, Payton Swift  
CC: Lawrence Channing, Maximillian Honnecker, Viktor Petrov, Jasper Marion, Charles Ulrich  
From: David Ashton  
Subject: Cell Assignments

All,

For improved security of our little alliance and better performance of our mission, I am dividing our forces into several cells. The cellular assignments are below. The first person listed in each group is the cell leader. The chain of command within each cell will be determined by the cell leader. The primary mission of each cell is listed above the cell.

Command

Ashton  
Abjer  
Dublin  
Swift

Operations

Honnecker  
Channing  
Marion  
Petrov  
Ulrich

Recon 1

Griffin  
Ackart  
Forrester  
Kjellson  
Madsen  
Pellier, J.

Recon 2

Selbjorgsdottir  
Bentenrai  
Cartell  
Pellier, C.

Recon 3

Ellis  
Doyle  
Frazier

All reports and updates will be sent through the operations cell. The ops cell will update the command cell, as needed. All recon cells may also be utilized as combat cells, as needed. Stay flexible and alert.

Questions may be forwarded through the operations cell.

Thank you,

Ashton.


	24. Hate Still Shapes Me

Author's Note: The Centre George Pompidou was closed for renovation at the time of the events of this chapter. It did not reopen until 1 January 2000. I have taken some liberties with the timeline of the building.

Chapter 23  
Hate Still Shapes Me

"It grips you so hold me.  
It stains you so hold me.  
It hates you so hold me.  
It holds you so hold me.  
Until it sleeps."

"Until It Sleeps" - Metallica

18 November 1999  
Paris, France

It had been over a week since O'Banian's run-in with David Ashton and she was still shaken by it. How had the bastard known she would be at Emil Halbert's house that night? And why the semi-merciful warning to lay off the families of the Watchers? Why did he care? What connection did they have that made them so valuable to him? And how dare he think he could take her and the Council on all by himself. All the unanswered questions aggravated her to no end. So great was the annoyance, in fact, that it kept her from focusing on planning the group's next strike for over a week. When she did, she did not even choose the location of it until minutes before they were to leave.

The target was an apartment complex on Rue Mouffetard at the Claude Bernard apartment complex. Paris did not have a lot of space for houses except for the exceptionally wealthy. Space came at a premium and most people lived in apartments. The Dansereau family was one of these. O'Banian smirked at the fact that, at least this time, the Watcher family did not have an estate-like home to call their own.

_Finally, a bit o' humility fer ya bastards,_ she thought.

That was her thinking anyway until she looked up the cost of the apartment: €5,000 per month ($4,846.5 0) plus utilities and cleaning expenses. Then she gasped in shock.

"Holy shit!" she said aloud as the others were gathering their equipment. "These fuckers must have an expense account fer housin' er somethin'. There's no way they're payin' their people this much all over the world for this kind of lodgin'. This is insane."

"I don't think you have to worry about the luxurious lifestyles of our enemies," reminded Bilsby, placing a hand on her shoulder. "They won't be around to enjoy it much longer."

O'Banian grinned. "Yeah, tha''s a good point." She picked up her equipment bag and followed the rest of the group out the door.

There was one problem when the eight of them assigned to the hit reached the apartment building. The door required a security code to open it. The database had said nothing about that. While O'Banian seethed at this lack of information, LeFitte stepped calmly to the door and pressed the button for apartment twenty-three.

"_Bonjour?"_ (Hello?) answered a child's voice.

LeFitte smiled at the others as she replied, _"Salut. C'est une Livraison Rapide avec un colis pour M. Dansereau." _(Hi. This is Speedy Delivery with a package for Mr. Dansereau.)

"_D'accord. Attendez s'il vous plaît."_ (Okay. Wait, please.) The door buzzed, signalling they could enter.

"_Merci beaucoup."_ (Thank you very much.) The eight of them walked casually through the entrance, their weapons concealed beneath their clothing. "See?" said LeFitte. "All too easy."

"A calm mind shall overcome," said Faaris, with a small grin.

"Let's keep movin'" muttered O'Banian, "before they realize no one's ordered anythin'."

They were delayed slightly as they searched for a lift. Quickly learning there wasn't one in the building, they took to the stairs at a run. Arriving in front of their chosen apartment a moment later, they paused only briefly to catch their breaths. LeFitte knocked on the door after getting a nod from O'Banian.

"_Livraison Rapide,"_ (Speedy Delivery,) she announced.

The door opened. A boy of eight stood before here.

"_Bonjour,"_ (Hello,) he greeted her, grinning.

LeFitte smiled at the boy. _"Bonjour. Es-tu Daniel?"_ (Hello. Are you Daniel?)

"_Oui,"_ (Yes,) the child replied, obviously thrilled the pretty lady knew his name.

"_Pourriez-vous vous retirer, s'il vous plaît, afin que mes collègues puissent entrer?"_ (Would you step aside, please, so my coworkers can come inside?)

"Sûr._"_ (Sure.) Daniel moved away and LeFitte stepped inside.

"_Merci, Daniel."_ (Thank you, Daniel.) She patted the boy's head as she entered. The other seven quickly followed here. Bilsby was the last to enter and shut the door behind him. Daniel, noticing none of the people held a package in their hands, looked up at LeFitte with a questioning expression.

"_Tais-toi maintenant, Daniel,"_ (Just be quiet now, Daniel,) she whispered to the child, placing a hand on his now trembling shoulder,_ "et tout ira bien." _(and everything will be fine.)

Twenty minutes later, the interrogation of Arthur Dansereau and his family was concluded. He, his wife, and his three children were all seated on the sitting room couch facing the Council, a single bullet through each of their foreheads. The carpeting and furniture behind them was decorated with a grotesque splattering of blood and cranial matter.

"That went well," Penn summed up, grinning. "We got additional information from them and even managed to wrap things up with minimal damage to the flat. If we want, we could clean things up and continue using this place for a while."

"And why would we want to do that?" demanded O'Banian, her face stern.

"It's not a bad idea," defended MacBane. "A secondary location as a fallback for some of us is always a good option to have."

"He's right," said Pittman. "We now know the Watchers are paying for the place. Let them keep doing so. We'll just dump the bodies someplace they won't be found for a good while and keep the flat for ourselves."

O'Banian considered the proposal briefly and then nodded. "Any thoughts on a dump site?"

"Leave that to me," volunteered Tuppankovich. "I am quite skilled at making things disappear."

xxxxxxxxxx

20 November 1999  
Paris, France

"It's finally time for you to make your move, Payton," Ashton began, handing the man a manilla folder. The two Immortals were alone in Swift's room in Ashton's mansion. "Charles Ulrich has learned about a new Hunter named Ethan James who is designated to meet one of the higher ups in their organization, a man named Alan Ottenbreit, in Lockerbie, Scotland on the twenty-sixth of this month. As far as we know, the two have never met and you bear a resemblance to James. This folder contains everything we know about him. You will need to have it memorized by the time you meet Ottenbreit."

Swift flipped through the pages of the file slowly. "That's not a lot of time to learn all of this," he said. "I'll make it happen, though. The hardest part will be the accent. It says here he has a midwestern accent. That could be a wide range of things. Ah, I see he's originally from Missouri. That helps. What about the real man?"

"Ulrich has taken care of that. He learned James' location from Scott Moran and attempted to capture him in Little Rock, Arkansas two days ago. He resisted and Ulrich was forced to kill him. He is no longer a concern. He won't be crossing paths with you in Scotland."

Swift nodded and kept perusing the file. "That's one less thing to concern me, I suppose. Now I just have to make myself look like this photograph, I guess."

Ashton stood. Swift did the same. "I'll leave the rest of the prep to you, then. I have a meeting across town with Pad Griffin and some new recruits in a few minutes. Good luck."

Ashton shook Swift's hand and left the room.

xxxxxxxxxx

20 November 1999  
Paris, France

It was another conference room in another hotel. Ashton was starting to think the meeting places were becoming a bit stale in their selection. He shrugged off the thought. It did not truly matter as long as they were secure. He looked at the baker's dozen of Immortals in the room. Besides Paderau Griffin and one other, he did not know any of them. He referred to a list Griffin had given him. Douglas Cooke, Eric Godfrey, Chrstophe Dubeau, Ambrose Barron, Eliška Bezdek, Muneer El-Baig, Dennis Foster, Janina Steponas, Ni Tang-Su, Gregory Zorig, Tara Ingram, and Michael Durango. Of them all, he had only met Barron in the past. The others were new to him; only Griffin could vouch for their credentials. That was good enough.

Raising his eyes to the faces before him, Ashton spoke, "I would like to thank all of you for coming here today. Of the twelve of you, I am sorry to say, I only know one, Mr. Barron. I hope to remedy that as we work together. The rest of you are known only to my colleague here, Pad Griffin, and only he truly knows the details of your individual CVs. For the moment, that is enough for me. I trust his judgement. The fact that each of you has volunteered to join us in this conflict of ours speaks volumes as to your loyalty to him and your worth to our cause. What, if I may ask, has Pad told you of the problem we are facing?"

A slender brunette woman raised her hand to answer. By all appearances, she looked to be no more than twenty-two. "Since I don't know some of the people in this room, either," she said, "I'll introduce myself. My name is Tara Ingram. I'm a relatively new Immortal, I guess. I'm only forty-seven. Pad told me that there are mortals out there killing Immortals and that we need to band together to fight them. He said they're an offshoot of something called the Watchers. I don't know much about them, but he said those people are not our enemies, just these people he called Hunters."

Ashton nodded. "That's a decent summation of the primary threat. Thank you, Ms. Ingram, and welcome to the group that one of the Watchers has colloquially dubbed the Alliance." There was a chuckle around the room. Ashton grinned. "I know. It sounds like something out of Star Wars. I think he did it more to tell us apart from the other group that is of concern to us. If you are not aware of it already, I will tell you about it now.

"There is a faction of Immortals calling themselves the Council who also believe they are fighting the Hunters. The issue we have with them is they are taking an overly generalized approach to that fight. They see all Watchers as Hunters and, as a result, all Watchers - and their families - are in their crosshairs. Many innocent people have been killed so far due to their actions and, we believe, this is only driving Watchers into the ranks of the Hunters. In their belief that they are hindering the cause of the Hunters by seeking to destroy the Watchers entirely, they are actually helping the Hunters. So, you see, we actually have a two-front battle, the Hunters and the Council."

Another Immortal, an Oriental, raised his hand. "I am Ni Tang-Su," he said. "For those who do not know me, I am Chinese and I am three hundred sixty-two years old. I have heard rumors of these Hunters before. Never have I dealt with them myself, but I have had friends who have disappeared without explanation and, only years later, have the vaguest of possible reasons surfaced that it may have been Hunters that led to their demise. If we can do anything to stop the scourge of the Hunters, I am willing to join that fight. As far as this Council you mention, they are misguided. They must be either convinced of the error of their ways or killed before they cause anymore harm."

"Thank you, Mr. Ni," replied Ashton, recognizing the Asian tendency to introduce one's self by the family name first. This caused looks of confusion from some around the table. Others seated nearby leaned over to explain. Ashton kept speaking.

"I personally warned the leader of the Council two weeks ago to cease and desist. Whether she heeds that warning remains to be seen. We will prepare as if she did not. Even if she did, those preparations will aid us in our coming fight with the Hunters."

Ambrose Barron raised his hand. He also introduced himself and gave his age, one hundred seventy-four years, before asking his question. "And what will those preparations entail?"

"For now," answered Ashton, "I will divide everyone up into the existing cellular structure we have and let you begin working within those cells. Each one has its one emphasis, be it reconnaissance, control and tracking, command, et cetera. All cells can become combat cells, as needed, based on the situation. We remain flexible and adjust based on the information we receive from the various recon units. Once we have viable targets, we revert to combat mode and strike."

Everyone in the room nodded at this. "Sounds good to me," replied Barron.

"Fine, then," continued Ashton. "Give your email addresses to Pad and keep an eye on them. Until you get your assignments, you will all be lodged at this hotel. Once you get your emails, you will be lodged wherever your cells are located. Thanks again, everyone."

xxxxxxxxxx

Date: 22 November 1999  
To: Turan Abjer, Dominic Ackart, Hotsuma Bentenrai, Jonas Cartell, Eric Doyle, Darren Dublin, Jennifer Leslie Ellis, Jacob Forrester, Wallace Frazier, Paderau Griffin, Winter Kjellson, Joseph Madsen, Chris Pellier, James Pellier, Dalla Selbjorgsdottir, Payton Swift, Douglas Cooke, Eric Godfrey, Chrstophe Dubeau, Ambrose Barron, Eliška Bezdek, Muneer El-Baig, Dennis Foster, Janina Steponas, Ni Tang-Su, Gregory Zorig, Tara Ingram, Michael Durango  
CC: Lawrence Channing, Maximillian Honnecker, Viktor Petrov, Jasper Marion, Charles Ulrich  
From: David Ashton  
Subject: Update to Cell Assignments

All,

Cell assignments are updated as indicated below. As before, the first person listed in each group is the cell leader. The chain of command within each cell will be determined by the cell leader. The primary mission of each cell is listed above the cell.

Command

Ashton  
Abjer  
Barron  
Dublin  
Swift

Control

Honnecker|  
Channing  
Ingram  
Marion  
Petrov  
Ulrich  
Zorig

Recon #1

Griffin  
Ackart  
Bezdek  
Cooke  
Forrester  
Kjellson  
Madsen  
Pellier, J.

Recon #2

Selbjorgsdottir  
Bentenrai  
Cartell  
Dubeau  
Durango  
Godfrey  
Pellier, C.

Recon #3

Ellis  
Doyle  
Foster  
El-Baig  
Frazier  
Ni  
Steponas

As before, all reports and updates will be sent through the operations cell. The ops cell will update the command cell, as needed. All recon cells may also be utilized as combat cells, as needed. Stay flexible and alert.

Questions may be forwarded through the operations cell.

Thank you,

Ashton.

xxxxxxxxxx

25 November 1999  
Paris, France

The ringing phone was a welcome interruption from the somber intelligence report from Honnecker that Ashton was reading. The Minoan blinked once and pulled his eyes from his laptop screen, staring at the jingling device on his desk. He reached for it and brought the handset to his ear.

_"Oui?"_ (Yes?)

_"Oui, c'est moi."_ (Yes, it's me.) The voice of Ashton's informant inside the Council spoke across the line.

"_J'écoute,"_ (I'm listening,) Ashton replied, leaning into his leather-backed chair.

"_Ils sont à nouveau en mouvement. Ce soir à huit heures aux appartements du Le Marais, rue Saint-Martin. Ils ont fait une attaque il y a une semaine. Je ne pourrais pas vous en parler parce qu'ils ont élaboré leurs plans trop rapidement. Je suis désolé."_ (They're on the move again. Tonight at eight o'clock at the Le Marais apartments on rue Saint-Martin. They made an attack a week ago. I couldn't tell you about it because they made their plans too quickly. I'm sorry.)

Ashton closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. _"Ne t'inquiète pas pour ça. C'est bon. Nous allons travailler avec cela."_ (Don't worry about that. This is good. We will work with this.)

He leaned forward again, scribbling the details onto a nearby notepad. _"Combien vont être impliqués dans l'attaque?" _(How many are going to be involved in the attack?) he asked.

"_Sept,"_ (Seven,) came the reply.

"_D'accord. Bon travail. Je vous remercie. Au revoir."_ (Okay. Good work. Thank you. Goodbye.)

Ashton hung up the phone

xxxxxxxxxx

25 November 1999  
Paris, France  
Rue Saint-Martin near the Le Marais apartments

The Le Marais apartments were one block away from the Centre George Pompidou, a complex building in the Beaubourg area of the fourth arrondissement of Paris, near Les Halles, rue Montorgueil, and the Marais. It was designed in the style of high-tech architecture by the architectural team of Richard Rogers and Renzo Piano, along with Gianfranco Franchini. It houses the Bibliothèque Publique d'information (Public Information Library), a vast public library; the Musée National d'Art Moderne, which is the largest museum for modern art in Europe; and IRCAM, a centre for music and acoustic research. Because of its location, the Centre is known locally as Beaubourg. It was named after Georges Pompidou, the President of France from 1969 to 1974 who commissioned the building, and was officially opened on 31 January 1977 by President Valéry Giscard d'Estaing.

Paderau Griffin cared nothing for this at the moment. The light was fading on the Rue Rambuteau and his eyes were not adjusting fast enough to his liking. Even with the assistance of the street lights, passersby were mere shadows at times rather than actual humans. He cursed under his breath and fidgeted in the driver's seat of his car. Rubbing his arms against the growing chill, he adjusted the vehicle's heat setting a little higher.

"It's only seven o'clock, Pad," said Dominic Ackart in the passenger seat beside him. "Why are you so impatient? They're probably not even here yet."

Still rubbing his arms, Griffin replied, "According to their history, they've always shown up early and made a recon of their targets before making the actual hit. Even with this being an apartment complex, I'd expect the same of them now. I'd like to catch them while they're still unprepared."

"We don't even know who most of them are, though. We know they've been reinforced since they got to Paris. We have no idea who those new Immortals are." James Pellier's commentary from the backseat was relevant and somewhat depressing.

"That's why we have to rely on Winter and the others who are out there on foot among the crowd to let us know when they sense anyone. It's not a very good plan, but it's the best we've got at the moment." Griffin continued. "We just have to hope that they don't cancel the whole thing once they sense us, as well."

"What would you do in their position?" asked Ackart.

"Hard to say," said Griffin. "If it were only one Immortal in the area, I might discount it as random chance. Paris is a popular place for Immortals, after all. If I noticed more than one, though, I'd probably nix the whole plan right away and scatter. That's why I had the other five out there stay as far apart as possible until the last moment. We can only hope the Council doesn't do the same, that they stay clustered together."

"What have they done previously?" asked Pellier.

"The reports say they've clustered. That's good for us. They've shown up as a group, hidden themselves away, and sent out a one or two man scouting party to check things out. I'm hoping they continue with that pattern tonight."

Griffin's radio crackled. Jacob Forrester from inside the main lobby of the complex reported, "I just felt someone come into the building. With luck, he just thinks I'm someone trying to let out an apartment. I've been talking to the clerk at the desk for fifteen minutes about that anyway. He should have overheard us when he came in. I saw him as he entered. Some Japanese guy. I don't know who he is."

"Got it. Anything from the other stations?"

The others save one reported in the negative. Joseph Madsen called in, "I saw a guy go in through the service entrance. He was too far away to tell whether he was Immortal or not, but he went in at about the same time Forrester mentioned the Japanese fellow. Tall guy with black hair carrying a tool box. He might be a repairman who works here or he might be another scout. Hard to tell."

"At this time of night," said Griffin, "I'm betting the latter. Keep your eyes open. Stand by, everyone."

Thirty minutes crawled by as the three Immortals sat in the car staring at the radio on the dashboard. It sat silently staring back at them. The three men shuffled impatiently and cleared their throats, trying to will the machine to do something. Ackart began to wonder if the batteries had died. He was about to say so when the device crackled again. It was Madsen.

"The maintenance guy is exiting the service entrance now. He's walking around toward the front of the building."

Griffin picked up the radio. "Winter, in case he is an Immortal, move away so he doesn't sense you."

"Roger that," Kjellson acknowledged.

Forrester's voice followed Kjellson's. "I just finished a tour of a model apartment with the apartment manager. I saw the Japanese guy roaming around as we made our way back. He's going out the front door now, too."

"Roger," said Griffin. "I see both of them now." Griffin watched the two shadowy figures, one with a toolbox and one without, as they walked away from the apartments toward the intersection of Rue Saint-Martin and Rue de Grenier-Saint-Lazare. Following their path, Griffin estimated their destination. He pressed the push-to-talk button on the radio. "Okay, everyone, it looks like they're going to approach from the north. Gather in the wooded area in front of Le Djurdjura. We'll hit them as they come down the street."

Griffin waited until everyone had acknowledged his instructions before turning the key to kill the engine and exiting the vehicle. Reaching inside, he took hold of his sword and tucked it beneath his long jacket along with his UMP and Glock 17. He, Ackart, and Pellier walked at a quick pace down the street to the chosen rendezvous point. They were met by Eliška Bezdek, Winter Kjellson, and Jacob Forrester. Joseph Madsen and Douglas Cooke would not be far behind.

They stood in the shadows of the trees, surreptitiously checking their weapons as they waited. Some of them adjusted their blades beneath their jackets to make sure they could easily access them, if needed. Cooke and Madsen arrived as they completed their weapons checks.

"There they are, I think," said Kjellson, pointing across the street.

"Can't really tell from this distance," commented Bezdek softly.

"If so, they've decided to carry on despite sensing Forreser in the front lobby," stated Griffin. "That could be good or bad for us."

"My God," added Cooke. "Look at that one. He's huge."

Just as Cooke made his statement, the electric sizzle of the presence of several Immortals rolled over them. The heads of the approaching group turned, searching in every direction as they continued forward.

"It's definitely them," said Griffin as the approaching group began to pull weapons from inside their clothing. "Go. Now."

The eight hidden Immortals dashed forward, spreading out and taking careful aim with their machine pistols as they moved. Griffin paused in his run and triggered a two-round burst at the nearest Immortal, a tall muscular man with black hair. He did not fire on automatic due to the presence of civilians in the area. Griffin's burst struck the muscular Immortal in the abdomen, causing him to falter in his advance and stumble. The man next to him turned and fired at Griffin, forcing him to evade to the left, seeking cover.

The advancing group of the Council scattered. So did the Alliance as each chose a target and made pursuit. Civilians screamed and ran for any cover they could find. The Council members returned fire with the MP5s. They were not as restrained as the Alliance members, firing bursts on automatic. Cooke was hit in the left leg and crawled behind a parked car, dragging his UMP with him. Pellier stood near the car and provided covering fire for him.

On the other side of the street, Griffin was still trying to evade the return fire of the second Immortal. He made it to the far side of the street and into the doorway of Saint Martin Pressing, hugging the wall. The pursuing Immortal appeared, his MP5 leading the way. Griffin slammed his UMP into it, knocking the weapon from the Immortal's grasp. The man cursed and lashed out with a backfist toward Griffin's face. Griffin turned his head to the side and took the brunt of its force on his temple, staggering back. The attacking Immortal stepped forward, crushing his fists against Griffin's wrists. The UMP fell to the pavement. Griffin retaliated with an uppercut to the man's jaw. As the dazed Immortal stepped back to keep his balance, Griffin reached beneath his jacket for his sword. The Glock was on his right hip and would take longer to reach. The sword was the fastest weapon he could access at the moment. Seeing this, the Council Immortal spat a wad of blood from his mouth and drew his own blade from beneath his trench coat.

"Aaron Pittmann," the Council member said, stepping back to allow Griffin room.

"Paderau Griffin," replied Griffin. He had no time for any further introduction as Pittmann nodded and attacked.

Amidst the clamor of gunfire, Dominic Ackart stared down the Council's wounded giant. The giant was bleeding from two bullets in his left arm and obviously infuriated by the annoyance of it. His dark eyes singled out Ackart and raised his MP5 in his right hand. Ackart fired a burst instinctively at the enormous man. One of the two rounds struck him in the right side, throwing off the aim of his own burst of first. The chamber of the MP5 clicked back on an empty chamber. Scowling at the weapon, the giant ran forward, dropping the weapon while ramming a lowered shoulder into Ackart. As Ackart struggled to stand, the brute reached beneath his jacket and drew out a curved shamshir.

"Get up, Immortal, announce yourself, and face Omeir Faaris," bellowed the giant.

Ackart coughed, feeling a rib trying to knit itself beneath his skin, and staggered to his feet. Taking his rapier from its scabbard on his belt, he raised himself to his full height and faced his opponent. He took a breath and introduced himself with a confidence he did not feel.

"I am Dominic Ackart, giant, and I am your opponent tonight." Ackart raised his rapier and stepped back into the fight.

Winter Kjellson gasped as the tall, blond man tackled her, driving her back against a car. The vehicle bracing her back, she was able to stay on her feet, but the man was pressed tightly against her, preventing her from using her UMP. The man's right arm was bleeding and he no longer had his MP5. With his right hand over her UMP and her hand, he held the weapon away from him; with the left, he wrapped his fingers around her throat and squeezed. He was also pushing her to the ground. Kjellson fought for breath and for balance.

In a desperate move, she pulled the trigger on her UMP, sending two bullets into the pavement near his feet. It had the desired effect. The man loosened his grip on her throat and danced about on his feet, unsure where the bullets were hitting. Kjellson released the machine pistol and let it drop to the pavement. With both hands, she placed both palms on his chest and pushed him away. She used the brief respite to drop her jacket and take the kung fu broadsword from its scabbard hanging at her back. The blond man recovered his balance and grinned at her.

"It's to be blades, is it?" he asked. Kjellson nodded. The man drew his own sword from beneath his jacket. "Very well, then," he replied. "I am Hewett Penn."

"I'm Winter Kjellson."

"Then let us begin, Ms. Kjellson," said Penn, stepping forward.

He lunged with his broadsword, forcing her to step aside. He swept to the left to catch her on the move. The blade clanged against hers, held in a downward position as she stepped forward to stand next to him. Kjellson's next move was an upward pivot of the blade and a diagonal cut down. The blade connected with the back of Penn's neck and continued through to the front. Kjellson took another step and lowered her sword, letting out a breath and waiting for the Quickening to begin.

Ackart parried the giant's first stroke and cut Faaris across the chest. He stepped back out of the man's reach, took a breath, and went forward again. The shamshir moved with incredible speed, connecting with his rapier and redirecting it away. Faaris struck down from Ackart's left shoulder to his right hip. Gasping, Ackart slipped to his knees, the rapier falling from limp fingers. He never saw the shamshir come for his head.

Griffin did not try to block Pittmann's first attack, an overhead strike. He stepped aside and let it fall. Pittmann growled and raised his blade to parry Griffin's lunge to his side. The effort was weak, but effective. Pittmann swept the blade up, both hands on the handle and catching Griffin's blade to push it away. As this happened, Pittmann's body turned and Griffin stepped in and hammered a fist into Pittmann's right kidney. Pittmann gasped for air and turned back to face his opponent. Griffin impaled him through the abdomen as he turned. Withdrawing the blade, he let Pittmann take a final step back, the realization in his eyes. Griffin swung his sword in a horizontal arc. It was over.

The havoc of three simultaneous Quickenings tore through the Rue aux Ours and Rue du Grenier-Saint-Lazare. Storefronts and car windows shattered before the electric storms wrought from the bodies of the slain Immortals. The few remaining civilians in the area froze to gawk at the lightning tearing through the streets. Even the other Immortals ceased their gunfire and watched in silence as the essence of three Immortals were absorbed by their killers. When the cries of pain of the victors and the thunder of the Quickenings finally subsided, none of the combatants had the heart for further fighting. To a man, they picked up their weapons and left, their only regrets being they could not carry off the bodies of their fallen. The sirens of approaching police were already sounding in the distance.

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25 November 1999  
Paris, France  
Renaissance Paris Vendome Hotel

O'Banian took a sip of wine and paused in her perusal of the purloined Watcher computer once she sensed the approach of the other Immortals. She turned to face the door expectantly. It opened without its normal coded knock to tell them all was well, her first sign of trouble. From the look of the Council members as they entered, the oversight may have been intentional.

"What tha hell happened ta you lot?" she asked, standing from her chair and walking into the sitting room.

"There were other Immortals waiting for us," replied Locke, wiping blood and sweat from his brow. "Eight of them. And armed just as well as we were."

"And don't worry about how we look," said Faaris in his thick-tongued tones. "We came in through a side entrance. No one saw us."

O'Banian ignored him, focusing on Locke. "The fuck do you mean there were others waitin' on ya?"

"Just what he said," muttered MacBane, throwing a dark towel onto the couch to catch any blood on his clothing before slumping down on top of it. "We were ambushed just as we were making our way to the complex to do the hit. They knew we were coming. If they didn't then they reacted pretty damn quickly and set up a good counter to our strike. It was ugly."

"There was one in lobby," said Tokawa. "He talking with apartment man and looking around. I see him later with others."

O'Banian scanned the group, finally noticing they were short by two. "Aaron and Hewett?"

"They're dead," answered Julian Black, still shaking from the encounter. "And Omeir killed one of theirs." He sat, slowly deflating, on the couch, Fiona quickly going to his side. "It was awful," he added.

"Bastards," cursed O'Banian, her face reddening almost as darkly as her hair.

"There was something about those eight," said Faaris, settling his massive frame into a chair. "The way they moved, the discipline of their shooting. I'd say they all had military training. Most of them, at least."

"Damn that man," seethed O'Banian in response.

"What?" asked Locke from the kitchen as he poured a triple shot of whiskey. "What man?"

"Goddamn David Ashton," she spat.

Julian looked up at her, his head in his hands. "Who's David Ashton?"

"A fuckin' pain in my ass, that's who." She crossed her arms and began to pace across the sitting room while biting her lower lip. Several seconds of silence passed before she realized the others were staring questioningly at her. She stopped and faced them all.

"I met him when I went to hit Emil Halbert's house. He was waitin' fer me there. He's cleared out tha whole block and was jus' waitin'. He shot me in tha chest an' carried me ta my Explorer. Before I died, he tol' me to disband tha Council or he'd come after us. Me, actually. I didn't think he'd have a whole gang with 'im."

"Why didn't you tell us this before?" asked Faaris.

"I didn't think it was that important at tha time," she growled. She frowned. "Shite. An' who knows how many more there are? That means we have…" The rest of her words faded into an indecipherable whisper as she began to pace again, a knuckle between her teeth as she became lost in thought.

"What are you thinking, Siobhan?" inquired MacBane from the couch.

O'Banian stopped in mid-step. Her expression implied she may have forgotten the others were there.

"Ah," she began, grinning somewhat shyly. One arm was still crossed in front of her while she chewed the knuckle of the first digit from the other hand. "I was thinkin' we've got two major problems now. Not jus' tha Watchers but Ashton an' his boys, too."

O'Banian's jaw fell to her chin and her arms to her sides. "Oh, fuckin' shite," she gasped. She glanced around at the six survivors of the raid. "Did any of ya notice any other Immortals or any mortals around, anyone one observin' ya as ye came back? Were ya followed?"

Faaris frowned and fidgeted in his chair, its legs creaking. "I don't think we were but, to be honest, we were all more concerned about just getting out of there than looking for Watchers."

"I don't mean Watchers, Omeir," demanded O'Banian. I mean scouts. A trailing party."

Faaris went pale. "I don't think so," he declared, unsure.

"Well, if I know anything about Ashton, ye were."

"I thought you said you just met him a few weeks ago," pressed Fiona.

"I did," clarified O'Banian. "But I've heard of him before. I know someone who knows him."

"Who?" asked Locke.

"It doesn't matter right now," she assured. "What matters is this place is prolly compromised now. We need ta move. Now. Get cleaned up and pack yer shite. We have ta clear out tonight."


	25. Come Crashing In

"Vows are spoken  
To be broken  
Feelings are intense  
Words are trivial  
Pleasures remain  
So does the pain  
Words are meaningless  
And forgettable"

"Enjoy the Silence" - Depeche Mode

25 November 1999  
Paris, France

Across the Seine, Payton Swift sat in his room in Ashton's mansion looking over the paperwork from Ethan James' file. He again went through his mental checklist of things he needed to do to prepare to infiltrate the organization. He had already acquired official-looking Watcher records for his cover. He would pass himself off as Ethan James, an American Watcher who graduated second in his class.

It again crossed Swift's mind that he might be called upon to prove his allegiance to the Hunters and actually murder one of his own kind. He shuddered at the thought and tried not to think about how he would handle such a situation. It wasn't the idea of murdering someone that disturbed him, it was that his own death would more than likely soon follow. If he were to take an Immortal's head, he would receive their Quickening - and then the Hunters would know exactly what he was.

He studied the paperwork one last time, although he could almost recite it by heart by now. "Looks good," he said to himself.

Swift went to the bathroom and began to don his disguise. First came the blonde hair - courtesy of Miss Clairol. Then the blue contacts, and finally thick round glasses. Satisfied with his appearance, Swift wandered back into the bedroom. He pulled on his jacket, hiding his 9mm pistol under his coat. He'd made his last contact with Ashton and the other Alliance members that morning. They knew that they wouldn't have contact again until he was firmly entrenched in the Hunter organization. Until then, Swift was on his own.

Swift grabbed the file and headed out the door. "Here we go," he sighed.

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26 November 1999  
Paris, France  
Rue du Grenier-Saint-Lazare

"_Quel bordel,"_ **(**What a mess,**)** said Palen as he walked the street alongside Lebeau. His partner just grunted, his eyes scanning in every direction as they moved. They sidestepped the multiple shell casings of bullets and fragments of glass. All of that would need to stay in place for forensics to check out.

Lebeau shook his head, thoughts flying through his mind like phantoms. He tried to grab each of them as they passed a logical part of his brain, but to no avail. Nothing was making sense. He stopped at one of the cars parked by the sidewalk of Rue du Grenier-Saint-Lazare and knelt by the body fallen near it, frowning.

"_Ce que je trouve particulièrement étrange,"_ **(**This I particularly find odd,**)** he commented to Palen, pointing at the dented passenger door. _"Il y a des douilles d'obus ici, mais il y a une épée à côté de cet homme. Et, encore plus étrange, il a été décapité. Pourquoi quelqu'un qui, selon des témoins, aurait une arme automatique choisirait-il de couper la tête de son adversaire?"_ **(**There are shell casings here, but there is a sword next to this man. And, even stranger, he has been decapitated. Why would someone who, according to witnesses, has an automatic weapon choose to cut off the head of his opponent?**)**

Lebeau stood up and sighed. _"Nous pouvons voir que la personne était visiblement appuyée contre la porte avec force ici même. La porte est bosselée et la fenêtre est fissurée. Pour une raison quelconque, la personne a décidé de laisser son arme à feu et soit d'utiliser cette épée ou une autre et de tuer l'homme d'une autre manière."_ **(**We can see the person was obviously pressed against the door forcefully right here. The door is dented and the window is cracked. For some reason, the person decided to drop his firearm and either use this sword or another one and kill the man another way.**)**

"_Et la même chose avec les deux autres corps,"_ **(**And the same with the other two bodies,**)** added Palen, looking behind him.

"_Exactement. Il y a des impacts de balles dans plusieurs véhicules et des marques dans plusieurs bâtiments. Il y a du sang partout. Les gens ont évidemment été touchés par les coups de feu, mais les seuls corps sont ces trois personnes. Pourquoi?"_ **(**Exactly. There are bullet holes in multiple vehicles and pockmarks in several buildings. There is blood everywhere. People were obviously struck by the gunfire, but the only bodies are these three. Why?**)**

"Les combattants auraient pu enlever leurs morts et leurs blessés, sauf ceux-ci, quand ils ont entendu les sirènes de la police s'approcher," **(**The fighters could have carried off their dead and wounded, except for these, when they heard the police sirens approaching,**)** suggested Palen.

"_Peut-être"_ **(**Perhaps,**)** said Lebeau, putting his hands in his pockets, _"mais cela ne correspond pas à la déposition des quelques témoins que nous avons. Ils nous disent que tous les combattants sont partis à pied juste après l'explosion."_ **(**but that doesn't match the testimony of the few witnesses we have. They tell us the combatants all left on foot right after the explosion.**)**

"_C'est la chose la plus étrange, du moins pour moi,"_ **(**That's the oddest thing of all, at least to me,**)** commented Palen. _"Ils disent que l'explosion, comme certains l'ont appelée, a duré près de quatre vingt dix secondes. Cela pourrait expliquer les dégâts causés ici, mais je ne vois pas d'éclats d'obus ni de cratères d'explosions. Seulement la destruction."_ **(**They say the explosion, or lightning storm, as some of them called it, lasted almost ninety seconds. That might account for the damage around here, but I see no shrapnel and no craters from explosions. Only destruction.**)**

"_Vrai,"_ **(**True,**)** agreed Lebeau. _"Nous sommes vraiment entrés dans le surréel avec cette affaire."_ **(**We truly have stepped into the surreal with this case.**)**

Palen looked at his partner inquisitively. _"Vous avez demandé à enquêter sur cette scène dès que vous en avez entendu parler. Pourquoi? Quel lien y a-t-il avec les meurtres d'église?"_ **(**You demanded to investigate this scene as soon as you heard about it. Why? What connection does it have with the church murders?**)**

"_Je ne sais pas encore,"_ **(**I don't know yet,**)** admitted Lebeau, _"mais je le sais. Je n'ai pas encore trouvé la connexion. Donne moi du temps."_ **(**but I know it is. I just haven't found the connection yet. Give me time.**)**

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28 November 1999  
Paris, France  
27 Rue des Chênes

Karl Eichmann relaxed in the passenger seat of the car as Erik Frost drove away from the Vallin family's burning home. The hit had been, as he had expected, remarkably easy. The seven members of the family had surrendered instantly to the invasion of the four gunmen. They had not resisted at all and the Watcher husband had, foolishly, complied completely with Eichmann's interrogation under the belief that he and his family would survive if he did so. In the end, the three-round burst of bullets to each of their chests told the family otherwise.

Eichmann and his small team had taken their time getting set up in their hotel suites at the Hôtel Malte - Astotel, courtesy of Bilsby's purse, and getting familiar with the geography of Paris before making any moves against the Watchers on the list O'Banian had given them. They had started with scouting out each of the homes, making a list of the order in which the families would be attacked and when. The Vallin family had drawn the short straw as the first on the list.

"They were a bit odd, don't you think?" commented De Lioncourt from the back seat.

"How so?" asked Eichmann.

"Mainly in what they knew and didn't know," clarified the Frenchman. "They knew of the existence of the Council and its aims. They also were aware of the new security element, the Guardians. They didn't know we were in France, though. We've been here for almost a month and Siobhan's people have been making moves the whole time. How could they not know?"

"Maybe Vallin was one of those Watchers who actually did nothing but watch," suggested Razumov, sitting beside De Lioncourt. "He might have just been focused on his job and not kept up on the other notices that were put out on the Watchers' database."

"Could be," surmised Eichmann from the front. "Siobhan's theory that all Watchers are a threat is somewhat of a stretch, anyway. In any large group, there are going to be those who just do what they're supposed to do and nothing more."

"Are you saying that what she's doing is wrong?" asked Frost.

"Not at all," answered Eichmann. "I'm just giving Vallin the benefit of the doubt. Siobhan is right in believing that all of those threatening us are Watchers and this is the best way to fight them. I'm also saying that we're going to get a few people like Vallin as we go about it. They're collateral damage. That's all."

"So you have no problem with killing people like Vallin and his family? His wife and children?" queried Razumov.

"Hah!" laughed Eichmann. "Not at all. I've done far worse in my day."

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29 November 1999  
Paris, France  
K&K Hotel Cayré

They had rented a dozen suites on the fourth floor of the Hotel Cayré for themselves. The largest of them, O'Banian's, was also the Council's meeting area. She had given Bilsby, Faaris, and MacNaughton keys to the suite in order to access it should she be away. Most of the Council members roomed alone, the Blacks and a few others being the exceptions.

O'Banian sat alone in the sitting room of her suite, the captured Watcher computer in her lap. The information on its screen was not the focus of her attention. For the moment, she let her eyes roam the vast luxury of the room around her. Such luxury was not her usual lifestyle and she found herself somewhat discomforted by it. She had, in fact, spent a good part of her life fighting against people who lived exactly this way. She fidgeted on the couch, trying to fight down the twinge of hypocrisy welling up inside her.

_What's the problem, damn it all? It's not like yer the one payin' fer it. Darmond is. Whatta you care if he's payin' all kindsa money for it?_

'_Cause I use ta say such money could be better spent in other ways, that's what._

_It's jus' for a little while, isn't it? Can't ya enjoy it until this is over?_

_How long will that be?_

_Does it matter? As long as it's not comin' outta yer pocket?_

_Maybe. Maybe not._

_Anyway, don'cha have somethin' more important ta do right now?_

_Lotsa things, yeah. Tha first was makin' sure everyone was safe. I did that. Now I hafta confess ta everyone about this whole damn Ashton business, don't I?_

_Yeah, ya do, _chided the other side of her brain.

_Not, tonight. I'm gonna get a good night's sleep in that cushy bed tonight. I'll make my confessions tomorrow. And make my amends, too. I've already got a plan fer that._

xxxxxxxxxx

30 November 1999  
Paris, France

Darren Dublin listened to the phone on the other end of the line ring and ring. He held the receiver between his ear and his shoulder, one hand absently twirling a pen, the other tossing and catching the hacky sack that was almost as much his companion as his sword was.

"Damn it, David, pick up the bloody phone," he muttered, knowing it was useless. Dublin swore and smacked the phone receiver down a little harder than he had intended. He looked around at the busy Paris street outside the window of the café in which he waited. He had heard through his usual sources of the massacre at Saint-Vincent - five Hunters dead plus the Catholic priest, Patrick O'Banian. He had known Patrick, met him on several occasions, and was greatly saddened at his passing. He was also more than aware what Patrick's death would do to someone else - someone already spinning wildly out of control in Dublin's opinion.

The Irishman ran his hand through his hair, cursing himself for leaving it loose rather than tying it back as he usually did. He shuffled back to the outside table he had occupied, taking a slow drink of his latte. Deep in thought, the hacky sack continued to toss up and down, unwavering in height and rhythm. If anyone had asked him to stop, Dublin would have denied even knowing he was throwing it.

Dublin placed the sack on the table, digging into the pocket of his jeans for the appropriate money. He picked through dollars, lira, marks, rubles, and pounds before finally finding the right currency. He tossed the coins onto the table, retrieved his hacky sack, and made his way off the patio and back onto the street.

A pretty redhead in a business suit walked by, giving him an appraising smile. He returned her grin, eyes sliding sideways when they passed. Then her perfume hit him - Chanel Number Five - and with it came the memories that he tried never to think about.

It didn't matter. _She_ had had her warning and one was all she was going to get. He hastened his step toward his car.

xxxxxxxxxx

30 November 1999  
Paris, France  
K&K Hotel Cayré

O'Banian's eyes skipped uneasily from one Council member to the next. Save Eichmann's detachment, they were all gathered together in her suite. Their gaze, just as pensive, was focused on her. She cursed mentally. She hated speaking in front of groups. She stood, hoping the movement would ease her nervous tension. It didn't.

"I have a…" She cleared her throat. "I have a confession to make to all of ya."

Several of the Council leaned forward in expectation. O'Banian felt her face redden. She put her left hand in her pocket, tightening it into a fist, and continued.

"There's somethin' I haven't told all of ya and it's time I did." She cleared her throat again. "I told Vincent, Omeir, and a few others a few days ago, but I think all of ya need to know. It's that important."

She took a breath. They were all looking intently at her now. This wasn't going to be as easy as the email she had typed out to Eichmann hours earlier. Hell, that hadn't been easy itself. She gulped and pressed on.

"We have others fightin' us besides the Watchers. Other Immortals. That's why ya don't see Aaron and Hewett here anymore. They died fightin' this other group of Immortals when they went to hit the Le Marais Apartments a few days ago."

"So that wasn't Hunters? That was other Immortals?" clarified Tuppankovich.

"Yes," said O'Banian. "They're bein' led, I believe, by a man named David Ashton. I met him when I went after the Harlbert family. He shot me and, before I died, told me to disband the Council. He said, if I didn't, he'd come after me. I didn't know he'd put together a whole group of other Immmortals and fight us all. I thought it was just one man blowin' smoke."

She left her seat at the couch, walking to the window overlooking the city. She kept talking as she moved.

"It took me a while to realize it, but Ashton and this group has actually been fightin' us since before we came to France. They interfered with our attack in Winchester, also. I was hopin' that group that stopped us in Winchester and killed Dasmius was just a random occurrence. Looks like I was wrong and these fuckers want a war. Well, I'm gonna give 'em one. I've already made up my mind. I'm gonna start by killin' off their leader."

O'Banian stared out the window but didn't see the sights. Her mind was busy on other things. Damn David Ashton and his interfering ways. She had never met him before, but knew of him well, could recite story after story of his exploits and adventures. In some ways, she'd grown up on such stories.

Her headache reminded her that David Ashton was only one of her worries. O'Banian closed her eyes, remembering the word scrawled on the ceiling in her own blood. _Damn the man!_ If he had wanted to make a point, why couldn't he just have called her or sent her a note? Why did he have to blow her brains apart?

_Because you would have hung up at his voice or tossed a note in the garbage as soon as you recognized the handwriting_, a stern voice told her. "But, at least I wouldn't have a bloody headache," she muttered aloud.

"What you say?" Taiki Tokawa enquired, looking up from his game of solitaire.

"Nothing, Taiki, just talking to myself," O'Banian replied, not turning from the window.

"So what's the plan?" Julian Black asked. "We've been here nearly twenty-four hours and so far we haven't done much. I think it's time we got organized."

"He's correct," Tuppankovich added. "We need to plan."

"I have a plan," O'Banian answered, still not turning.

Faaris looked up. "Besides killing Ashton, you haven't really said anything until now. What's the plan?"

"The head of the Watcher organization is a man called Michael Walker."

David MacBane snorted. "Tell us something we don't know."

"Nineteen Quai Voltaire," recited Locke.

All eyes turned toward him. He smiled coldly. "That's the Paris address of Michael Walker's office. The address was in Pierre Garneau's wallet."

"But what good is Michael Walker? He is only one and a paper pusher at that," Julian Black questioned, looking confused.

O'Banian smiled, her eyes still on the city. "One thing I learned with the IRA, was that the people you can easily get at are the pissants. They are expendable and they have no power. Every time you kill one, two more take their place. If you really want to take an organization out - you take out the people at the top. Without leaders, armies descend into anarchy and then you win. If we want to win, we need to take Michael Walker out."

Somewhere off to the side, Fiona Black gasped.

O'Banian turned to her. "What the hell did you think I planned to do with him, send him to Disneyland? This is a war, Mrs. Black, and if you have no stomach for it I suggest you pack off home. You can have tea and sandwiches while you wait for your loving husband to return - if he should manage to keep his head."

"Perhaps you should go, Fiona," her husband suggested. "Things might get - ugly."

Fiona Black paled and screwed her eyes shut. "No. I am staying, Julian." She looked at O'Banian. "You can't frighten me. No matter how hard you might try, you can't."

O'Banian leaned close to her. "Oh, Fiona, I'm not trying to scare you - yet."

"Leave her alone, Siobhan," Faaris told her. "We have other things to think about. How do you propose we go after Walker?"

"We watch his house and his office. He has no reason to suspect we'll come after him. We set up a watch and when he arrives…we grab him."

"What do we do with him when we have him?" Erik Frost asked, mouth dry. He was afraid he already knew the answer.

It was Omeir Faaris who answered. "We kill him."

xxxxxxxxxx

After the compromise of the previous set of suites, security was more of a concern. They decided that Vincent Locke would take the first watch. Omeir would relieve him at midnight, Tuppankovich would follow at six a.m.

David MacBane looked at O'Banian inquiringly when she pulled on her boots and slipped on her leather jacket. "Where are you going. Off on another night attack?"

"Something like that," she replied cryptically. It had occurred to her earlier that the same reasoning she had for eliminating Michael Walker and bringing the Watcher organization into chaos, could also be used for displacing those Immortals that opposed them. Get rid of their leader, and they too might just disappear into the woodwork.

_Most of them,_ Siobhan thought bitterly. There would be a certain few stubborn ones who would battle on until the bitter end. Until one of them lost their head. "Stubborn fucking Irishman!" she muttered, shaking her head. Grabbing her Templar sword, she set out to even the score.

xxxxxxxxxx

"Well," Locke said. "Siobhan's gone. And like she said, cut off the head and the body dies."

MacBaine, Faaris, and Tokawa turned to face him.

"You saying, Vincent, that we go kill Walker?" Taiki asked.

"Well, maybe not kill." Locke's monotone voice was cold. "We could at least capture him and bring him back here."

"Vincent, this is insane. You know that, right?" David MacBane said, not moving from his place on the couch.

"No, he's right." Faaris stood. "We've got his address and a little info. Let's get him now before they find out what we're planning." Faaris reached for his sword. The notion of being there for another night, just waiting, hadn't been sitting too lightly with him. Locke's idea seemed like the perfect solution.

"Oh, gimme a break. They know everything that's going on," MacBane groused, still not moving.

"Who cares. We're tough and they're not. Now, are we going to get this Walker guy or what?" Locke stood and grabbed his sword. "Well, I'm going and you can help if you want."

"Are you sure that's such a good idea?" Julian Black questioned. "I mean Siobhan said…"

"And who the hell died and made Siobhan O'Banian God?" Locke replied. "Siobhan is passionate, intelligent and committed - but she also has her own agenda. I, for one, am not her lapdog. I say we go and get Michael Walker tonight." With that, the Immortal exited the hotel suite, slamming the door behind him.


	26. A Lot of Oysters, But No Pearls

"And it's been a long December and there's reason to believe  
Maybe this year will be better than the last  
I can't remember all the times I tried to tell my myself  
To hold on to these moments as they pass"

"A Long December" - Counting Crows

01 December 1999  
Paris, France  
16 Place Charles de Gaulle

The clock had just clicked past midnight. David Ashton stopped unpacking. As he reached for his katana which was lying on the bed, a well worn thought flashed through his mind. _Will this never end?_

Freeing the blade from its scabbard, he left the room and headed for the lower floor. He knew the mansion intimately; he and his friends had used it frequently when travelling in France. He stepped out of the room just in time to see the front door begin to open. Quickly, he crouched down and watched through the railing of the landing as a man with a drawn dagger entered cautiously and asked hopefully of the seemingly empty house,

"Jonny?"

"Dublin, what are you doing here?" David asked, relief and curiosity filling his voice. "And what took you so long to get back?"

Darren Dublin looked up at his old friend, now coming down the stairs to greet him, and grinned. He switched easily from English to his native Gaelic. _"Dia dhuit ma`chairde."_ [Hello, my friend] Then, knowing Ashton was more comfortable in English, switched, drudging up the seldom used accent he'd been born into. "Knew you'd come crawlin' back," he playfully said.

Ashton rewarded his friend's joking jab with a sour look. "Don't bring that up again." Despite his verbal warning, he couldn't stop the memory of the alluded event from flooding back into his mind.

xxxxxxxxxx

It had been shortly after he'd found Dublin in Ireland and taken him under his wing, teaching him of the Game. They'd come across a band of thieves conducting their business with a travelling merchant. As Ashton had started toward the incident, Dublin stopped him. "They haven't seen us yet, and they won't if ya do nothin' daft."

"They might kill the man," Ashton answered.

"It's not likely. They're just thieves, but if you get us involved they might kill us. There's ten of them."

"A man I once studied, Miyamoto Musashi, taught that if you know yourself and your weapons, you can overcome endless armies. Besides, we're Immortal." The last was said as he again started toward the band of people.

"Aye, but it still hurts, and I'll not go into it willingly."

Dublin didn't, and Ashton had fought the thieves. The merchant bolted away as soon as the conflict started. Ashton managed to cut down three of the thieves before they started to react to his onslaught. Another two died before it happened. It was one of those things that only blind luck, or a Hollywood choreographer, can bring into existence. At the exact moment Ashton thrust one of his Roman centurion swords into the abdomen of the man in front of him, he also managed to parry the down-swinging knife of the man attacking from his left side with the other, nearly depriving the man of the lower portion of his arm in the process. This maneuver unfortunately left him unable to deal with the man who struck him a savage blow to the back of his skull at that precise moment, dazing him long enough for the remnants of the bandits to disarm him and commence to beat him to death. The man whose arm he'd almost amputated turned out to have a bit of authority with the group, and his latest cause for complaint was significant enough to supersede the customary riffling of a victim's body. They rushed into the surrounding woods toward a nearby village in the hopes of finding some sort of healer.

Dublin had left him where he'd fallen and set camp nearby. He'd already eaten, and banked the fire for the night by the time Ashton had come round and crawled over to it.

"Knew you'd come crawlin' back," he said with a very dry humour. "This, ah, Mushi guy of yours, he never fought in Ireland did he?"

"The man got away, didn't he?"

"Aye, but if not for our curse, you wouldn't have."

xxxxxxxxxx

Ashton pushed the memory aside and extended his hand toward his friend. Dublin took the offered hand in his own. Ashton then withdrew the hand and reshaped it to point his finger at the other man, assuming a mildly accusatory tone.

"You haven't answered my question. What are you doing here?"

"You first. I thought you were going to choose a more secure place than this. I hope you don't have all the others holed up in here, too."

They were moving into the sitting room now and Ashton was pouring some drinks; he'd always unpacked the important things first. "I got an email from Jonny," he said, avoiding Dublin's questions.

"How's the kid? I haven't heard from him in a while," Dublin interrupted.

"He's been having some trouble lately. Hunters recently attacked him."

"I've got some info on the Council's activities," Dublin offered. "I didn't know the problem stretched far enough to affect Johnny, too."

As Ashton handed Dublin his drink, they both felt the approach of another Immortal.

"Not again. Company of yours?" Ashton asked.

"No. What do you do, put an ad in the paper when you come to town?" Dublin retorted.

Ashton again picked up his sword as Dublin redrew his dagger. Nodding at his friend's larger blade, Darren asked, "Got anything else unpacked yet?"

"Sorry."

"Damn."

Just then, the same door through which Dublin had entered slammed open again. In strode Siobhan O'Banian, with the bold, direct approach that would someday get her killed. She realized this fact at the same time she realized that there was not one, but two Immortals in the room she had entered. Worse yet, she knew both of them, and they knew her, as well. Coming to the conclusion that she couldn't run now, largely because her ego wouldn't let her live it down if she tried to leave, she pointed her blade at Dublin.

"I came here tonight for David Ashton."

Dublin replied before the other man could say anything. "Too bad you had to find me here."

"I'll deal with you later," she spat. Although she knew he was in the country - the little theatrical episode in her hotel room a few weeks ago could have been choreographed by no one but him - O'Banian still hadn't been entirely prepared to meet him face-to-face after all these years. It threw her off momentarily. If they fought, could she really take his head? Could he really take hers?

"You'll deal with me now," Dublin said as he took a step toward her.

"What'd you do to her, Dublin?" Ashton asked. The animosity between these two wasn't simply that of Immortal meeting Immortal. There was something more. There had to be.

"Oh, nothing really, we just had a few bangs the night she got into town." Even in the stress of pre-battle tensions, Dublin refused to give up the wise-ass character he'd had for centuries. The subject of his most recent jab didn't appreciate his humor.

"Why didn't you take my head that night?"

"I was trying to give you another chance. You could've been a great help with the latest Hunter problem. However, according to the radio, you've not taken heed to my warnings. Tonight, I'll not be so lenient."

Ashton was starting to put things together somewhat. Dublin had said he knew of the Council's recent events, he must've gone about taking care of things in that theatrical way of his. Ashton had spent centuries trying to train that out of him, but Dublin hadn't gotten himself killed doing things his way...yet.

"Dublin," he called. When he got the man's attention, he tossed him the katana.

As the ivory handle of Ashton's blade slid into Dublin's hand, he took a heartbeat or two to stare at the older man who had been his mentor for ages. He'd never before held one of Ashton's blades. He'd been cut by them more often than he'd readily admit, but in the nearly one thousand years he'd known the man, he'd never once held one. His attention then shifted to the sword itself for another beat. He hadn't fought with a katana for a long time. He preferred the style of his broadsword, the one outside in his car.

Holding both long and short blades now, he turned again to face O'Banian. "I'm the one who has challenged you. Now, you either fight me, Siobhan, or you leave."

"Indeed," she responded with a slight raise of her left eyebrow. O'Banian threw herself into the battle with a ferocity few people outside the Celtic bloodline could muster. She mixed her pride in her heritage with the rage she'd cultivated throughout her life. The resulting Berserker-like attack had served her well even before she'd discovered her Immortality. It had helped to keep her alive…so far.

What she didn't consider was that Dublin was an Irishman, as well. He'd spent centuries learning to channel, focus, and control his ferocity, shaping it into a weapon as sharp and precise as a surgeon's scalpel. He'd also faced the first Berserkers, the huge Viking men who would spearhead the Norsemen's attacks wielding huge axes and feeling no pain as they slashed through the ranks of their opponents, not stopping until there was nothing left to kill, or they themselves were butchered beyond their capability of fighting. He'd become Immortal at the edge of one of those axes. In comparison, her display diminished considerably, but the quick slash she dealt him across the ribs from her Templar reminded him that she was still very much a threat to him.

Giving her a little ground so he could push the pain in his chest out of his mind and regain his focus, he ended up nearly against the wall of the sitting room. She took advantage of his lack of maneuvering space, rushing him with her sword held high, ready to come crashing down on his head.

He blocked her attack with the end of the katana at the high left position of his outer defensive circle. He pivoted his blade while sidestepping to his left, sliding her sword along towards the center of his own, and bringing the contact point into his middle circle. This allowed him to parry her attack and direct her movement to his right side. At the same time, he brought his left hand, still holding his dagger, around to jab into her back.

O'Banian was already turning to face him again when the dagger struck, missing its intended entry point, but piercing her right lung and nicking her spine nonetheless. The momentum of her movement continued to carry her forward, pulling the dagger from her and continuing to spin her around until she slammed into the wall facing her opponent.

The impact with the wall jarred the sword from her grasp and Dublin wasted no time in kicking it out of her reach. She slid down the wall now leaving a streak of blood in her wake. When she came to rest on the floor, slumping back on the wall, Dublin strode toward her purposefully. In a moment of his usual dramatics, he lifted her chin with the tip of the katana until their eyes locked. He hesitated, breath drawn in sharply. How many times had he looked into those eyes? He had often wondered if it would come to this - one taking the other's head, just as he had wondered that, if it did happen, could he actually do it. He was surprised. The answer was yes. _"Slan leat ghra,"_ he whispered softly.

O'Banian knew that her time in the Game was over. It was strange how her mind worked, even facing her death. As O'Banian looked into her executioner's eyes she could see a sadness. She knew intimately that he'd taken thousands of lives, but that he took no joy in any of it, and that he remembered every face. Would he remember hers?

As she sat there, she felt the advent of shock start to take effect. She knew shock; she'd died from it several times. She knew that she was slipping into unconsciousness and that, were Dublin's sword not at this very moment arching around his head to gather momentum for the truly fatal blow that would come down on her neck, she would die in only a few short seconds to be revived when her body had repaired itself. In an odd way, she was glad it was him. Perhaps when they joined through the power of the Quickening, he would know how much she hated the things she had done. Perhaps then he could forgive her. At least they would be together. Mercifully, she passed out before the stroke that would end her life for the last time landed.

Suddenly, there was a new blade protruding from the wall about ten centimeters above O'Banian's shoulder. It neatly bisected the path of Darren's stroke and had Ashton attached to the other end. He'd not been standing by twiddling his thumbs during this exchange. He'd watched very closely and had snatched up O'Banian's sword as soon as she'd been deprived of it. Ashton had noted the look in Dublin's eyes during the few heartbeats he and O'Banian spent staring at each other. For once, Ashton was glad for Dublin's theatrics. It had given him just enough time to get into a position to stop the imminent beheading… barely.

When the two swords made contact, Ashton jerked his head away, closing his eyes tight and drawing his breath in sharply through clenched teeth, it was after all his sword Dublin was wielding. To his credit, Dublin managed to turn the blade just in time to avoid a serious nick in the blade. The resulting flat on flat smack produced a loud, clanging, vibrating recoil that challenged Dublin's one handed grip.

Dublin spun on his friend with a wild, shocked _what the hell?_ look that fit so well onto his features. "What the hell are you doing?" he nearly screamed.

"You don't know what's going on, Darren. She's the figurehead of the anti-Watcher terrorist Council." It wasn't the only reason he had stopped his friend from taking Siobhan O'Banian's head, but it would do.

"I know about the damned Council. I was with you in England when we learned about her, remember? That's why she has to die. Haven't you learned anything about the Celts in all the years we've been friends? We don't give up. We don't stop. This isn't one of your diplomatic negotiations, Ashton. When one of us decides on a course, we don't stop until it's done or we're dead."

They'd moved a few meters away from her body during their argument and O'Banian was starting to come around. Dublin noticed and reflexively threw his dagger. She was by no means in any condition to dodge the projectile and it struck its target, piercing the upper part of her heart and actually passing through her back to lodge in the wall behind her. Thus pinned to the wall, she slumped back to the floor, surrendering to her second death of the night. She would remain dead this time until the dagger was removed and the wound was allowed to heal.

_She heals fast for her age,_ Ashton off-handedly thought as he grabbed Dublin's arm to stop him. The Irishman was following his dagger back to O'Banian's body.

"Think, Dublin," he ordered. "In all the wars and battles and causes you've been in, what spurred you on more, a live leader whose mind can be turned, or a dead martyr who died for their, your, cause? If you take her head, one of two things will happen, either her people will learn it was you and come after you, or they'll credit it to the Hunters, and redouble their efforts to wipe out the Watchers."

Dublin froze. _Damn it! Why does he always have to make sense?_ Dublin thought angrily. He pulled his arm from Ashton's grip, the venom gone out of his movements. He walked over to O'Banian's body and pulled his dagger from her chest. "What do we do with her, then?"

"I'll take care of her. You go get cleaned up, I could use your help with something." He knew Dublin needed to channel his energy into something or it would eat him up, and tonight was as good a night as any to start working on the members of O'Banian's Council.

_Friends help you move. Good friends help you move bodies,_ Dublin thought humorlessly. He took another long look at the dead body against the wall, his sense of honor and justice at battle with a small feeling of relief that Ashton had stopped him. Perhaps he was just prolonging the inevitable. Perhaps it would just be better to take her head now and get it over with, no matter what David Ashton argued.

Dublin turned away, giving a dissatisfied growl. He knew well where the shower was and, as he shambled off in that direction, he tossed Ashton's katana onto the couch. He knew his friend would take care of things while he was in the shower, he also knew how good the shower would feel as the adrenaline withdrawal began to exact its price on his body.

"Hrm..." Ashton mumbled as he knelt to examine the body on his floor, noticing that her latest wound was almost done healing itself. "That's no good. At this rate she'll revive before I can do anything." Having little other choice he used her own blade to reopen the hole in her chest, twisting the blade as it entered her body to inflict the maximum amount of damage, and did the same with some of her body's other more complicated systems. He then wrapped her in a blanket he retrieved from one of his still unpacked bags and, after tucking a pistol and his resheathed katana under his coat, carried her out to the trunk of his car.

xxxxxxxxxx

Vincent Locke leapt from building to building. His dark body could barely be seen next to the night sky. Below him, cars tore recklessly through the streets of Paris. Street lights flickered. Crouching on all fours and peering down from his vantage point, he could see the building Walker's office was supposed to be in.

An endless stream of thoughts raced through Vincent's head. _Why am I doing this?_ _Why am I going to kill these innocent people to get to the Hunters?_

A pigeon landed next to him and pecked the rooftop.

_Everyone in my village was innocent. I was innocent. Look at me now, damned to an eternity of life. Those people in the airplane, they were innocent, and the Hunters killed them without hesitation. Yes, I must, I will do this._

Locke leapt to the next office building.

_Do I really need to do this, or is it because I want the attention of that Irish girl? _

Locke banished the thought of being ruled over by a woman.

_It's true, I do long for the love of a woman. It will never grace my cold heart…but why does this bother me? Siobhan is too emancipated. Anyway, she wouldn't touch me with a ten-foot pole._

He breathed the cool air deep into his lungs and leapt to the next building. His leap fell short.

Locke's body slammed into the side of the building. Clawing as he fell, he finally managed to grab the side of a fire escape before falling to his death. The muscles in his arms quivered as he pulled himself to the top of the building. Safely on the roof, Locke sat down.

_What the hell happened? That jump was less than two meters._

Deciding to give himself plenty of running space this time, Vincent jumped the narrow alley and landed on the top of the Watcher's building. The Watchers' global headquarters was located on the entire third floor of the luxurious Hotel du Quai Voltaire. The rest of the building was a functioning hotel.

_There's loads of air vents and stuff up here. I should be able to sneak in easily._

Locke quietly clawed at a ventilation cover. After a minute or so, it slid off.

_Bingo. I can fit in here._

"Wait, Vincent."

Locke spun around and drew his sword. Faaris, Tokawa, and MacBane stood on the roof behind him. _How the hell did they get here before me?_

"Come on, Vincent. You think two meter man can fit in air vent?" Tokawa joked.

"God, you guys scared the shit out of me!" Locke wiped a bead of perspiration off his forehead.

"Hey, Vince," MacBane called. "We can go crawling in air vents quietly, or barge through the main door in a blaze of glory. It's your call."

_"It's your call." Their lives are my call. That's just great. _

xxxxxxxxxx

Devon Sather stepped out of the restroom and strode down the hall to his office. As he passed by the main door, a loud crash grabbed his attention.

A giant shamshir punched down the doors. Four large men stepped into the hall, weapons drawn. Sather ducked back into his office looking in vain for a weapon. Opening his desk drawer, he grasped his .44 Magnum Desert Eagle. The massive automatic in his hand, he positioned himself behind his desk and waited for them to come through the door after him.

Three Watchers ran into the main hall, one armed with a short sword.

"Remember, it's Walker we want," Omeir Faaris said, taking up his mighty shamshir. "But anyone who stands in the way is to die." Then, bellowing a war cry in some ancient language, he charged the Watchers.

One of the defending Watchers jumped at David MacBane. In a flurry of dodges, punches, and sword swings, the mortal was tossed into the air, entrails erupting from his stomach.

"Who's next?" MacBane triumphantly screamed.

The Watcher with the sword attacked Taiki Tokawa. Tokawa blocked his clumsy attacks and ran his katana through the Watcher's heart.

The third Watcher found himself surrounded. Locke leapt through the air, his sword raised above his head. In a downward cut, the man was cleaved virtually in two.

"There are not many Watchers here. Most have gone home by now," Faaris said, sounding somewhat disappointed.

Locke wiped some spattered blood from his black pants. "Well, either way, let's get Walker. He's probably still here."

_I just killed an innocent man. What if he wakes up in a few minutes to find himself Immortal…like I did…_ The thought didn't sit very well with him, and, for one brief second, he pondered the wisdom in what he was doing.

The Immortals stepped out in search of Walker's office. At the end of the hall, stood a door with the name Michael Walker on it. The Immortals gathered around the door. Inside, a man could be heard frantically speaking on the telephone.

"Omeir…the door," MacBane whispered.

Faaris's massive leg smashed through the door like paper and Locke charged inside. Michael Walker stood behind his desk. Seeing the Immortals, Walker dropped the telephone. Before he could bring his .45 to bear, Locke jumped over the desk and wrapped his fingers around Walker's neck.

"I could squeeze your head off right now if I wanted to, and end all of this...," Locke muttered. His dark eyes locked with Walker's. The Watcher dropped his gun.

Walker struggled to breathe. "Fear me…Immortal," he gasped. "You don't know...who you're dealing with..."

"I do not fear you, for I am fear incarnate," Locke whispered. With his left hand, Locke brought his new sword to bear on Walker's neck and gently slid it across. A crimson sliver of blood dribbled down his throat.

"Vincent, what the hell you doing," Tokawa cried.

Locke didn't respond, but kept his gaze locked with Walker's. He could taste the mortal's fear. Giving a low growl, Locke slammed Walker's body down on the desk and bound his hands together behind his back.

xxxxxxxxxx

Remarkably, disposing of an opponent's body was often times more nerve racking than the actual battle. This thought was with David Ashton as he drove O'Banian's corpse to a suitably dark and neglected alley. As he was propping her body up against a shadowed wall, she revived for the second time that night.

At the sound of her sharp inhalation, Ashton placed a hand behind her head and the other under her chin. Staring straight into her eyes, he said in a flat tone, "Disband your Council. There are many among us who think as Dublin does. This is your second warning. There won't be another." With that he snapped her neck and left the alley to head back to his house.

To his surprise, off to his left, the heavy presence of several Immortals came over him. Ashton immediately checked the inside of his coat, ensuring that both the katana and the pistol were there. Then, giving O'Banian's dead body a quick glance over his shoulder, he moved into the shadows and waited.

xxxxxxxxxx

Omeir Faaris, Taiki Tokawa, David MacBane and Vincent Locke had successfully exited the Watcher office, taking their newly acquired captive with them. Slipping through the dark streets of Paris, the Immortals led Walker on foot back to the hotel. It was not far from Watcher headquarters. Locke remained silent as they walked.

From nowhere, a presence fell over them, followed immediately by a crack that tore through the night. Omeir Faaris was clipped in the shoulder by a bullet. He did not cry out, but crouched down, wary, scanning for the gunman.

"Who the fuck is that," MacBane screamed, diving for cover.

A figure darted from behind a trash can and opened fire with what sounded like a pistol. Vincent slipped behind a doorstep and hid in the shadows. Taiki Tokawa was cut down in the spray of fire. MacBane and Faaris disappeared behind the side of a building and hid from the attacker.

Then, abruptly, the gunfire stopped. Locke peered around a corner. Tokawa lay dead and Michael Walker was nowhere to be found.

Faaris, MacBane, and Locke gathered around Tokawa's corpse.

"Shit," muttered Locke, running one hand through his hair.

At length, Faaris said, "Well, we can't stand around here all fucking night." He knelt down, picked up Tokawa as though he were nothing more than a small sack of flour, and threw him over his wounded shoulder, which was already healing.

"Siobhan is going to be pissed," offered David MacBane. "Walker'll be on the lookout for us now."

"Yeah, tell me something I don't know," Locke hissed. "Omeir, David, you guys head on back. I dragged us into this, I'm going to find Walker." he said.

"Yeah, but Vincent-" MacBane protested.

"Just do it!"

Without further questioning, MacBane and Faaris slipped into the shadows with Tokawa and vanished.

Locke stood alone in the darkened street, taking slow deep breaths.

_This is personal now._

xxxxxxxxxx

Far away from Vincent Locke, David Ashton worked on untying the knot in Walker's hands.

"Ashton, thank you. I thought they were going to kill me."

"Of course, Michael. We are all in this together. Did you, by any chance, manage to identify any of them?"

"Yes, Omeir Faaris and David MacBane. There were two others. The name of one of them escapes me right now, but I could spot one of them if I saw him again. He had the deepest red eyes, like he had a touch of albinism in him."

Ashton interrupted. "Thank you, Michael. I think I know exactly who your attacker was…"

xxxxxxxxxx

Vincent Locke searched the streets of Paris for Michael Walker, but never found him. MacBane was right, O'Banian was going to be pissed. Finally, cold, hungry and tired, Locke began to make his way back to the hotel.

He was four blocks from the hotel when the buzz touched his senses. His hand instinctively reached inside his coat, settling on the hilt of his sword.

"Unlike you, Mr. Locke, I like to play fair. I don't believe in four on one. I prefer to keep the odds more...even."

Locke knew who it was before David Ashton even stepped out into the light.

They had met before, approximately a hundred years ago when Locke was still running guns and Ashton had tried to dissuade him from such a career move. The resulting battle had killed both of them, their dead bodies being hauled away before one could revive and take the head of the other. Locke always knew they would meet again, and given Ashton's fierce opposition to the Immortal Council, he knew it would be soon.

"I've waited a long time for this," Locke told him, stepping out of the light of the street lamp.

"Then I hope I don't disappoint you," murmured Ashton. He didn't wait for a reply, instead arcing a brutal blow at Vincent Locke.

Locke quickly moved his longsword above his head, preventing the strike from taking his head. Ashton's katana glanced off Locke's sword, sliding down and slicing Locke across the shoulder. Blood flowed freely down Locke's arm, soaking through his coat and making his hand dangerously slick.

"I'm willing to let you walk away with your head, Mr. Locke," David Ashton offered. "But I want your word that you will disband your Council immediately. You may join me in removing the Hunters, but I want your word that you will leave the innocents alone."

Locke circled the elder Immortal warily, his rage running through him almost uncontrollably. "There are no innocents, Ashton. There are Hunters and those who will eventually become Hunters. Siobhan is right, if we leave any of them alive, this will happen again."

He didn't wait for Ashton to answer, letting his blade add weight to his words by cutting through the air in a strong, direct stroke at David Ashton's neck.

Ashton had anticipated the move and ducked quickly. He could smell Locke's anger and wondered what was behind it. True, they had met and fought before, but times were different now. Ashton was willing to let the past go - as long as Locke was ready to stop killing innocents.

Locke screamed his displeasure that Ashton's head was still attached to his body and struck again. Ashton brought his blade up to meet Locke's. Locke's response was a quick flick of his wrist, effectively knocking Ashton's blade slightly to one side, allowing the point of his sword to take direct aim for the soft flesh between his ribs. Ashton twisted to the left, side-stepping Locke's charge. His mind reluctantly accepted the inevitable; this wouldn't end until someone lost their head.

It was like a ballet, a lethal, deadly ballet that had both participants holding their breath. Each thrust was precise, calculated for the most efficient use of speed and strength. Ashton was again surprised at Vincent Locke's level of skill. For someone who had only recently become involved in the Game again, he was good. It was too bad he had to put that skill to use in such a disastrous way.

Their swords clashed, the blades sliding down to the hilts. Ashton feinted to the left, then spun an agile backhand low across Locke's left thigh. He gasped at the sting of metal slicing flesh.

"Walk away from this, Vincent," Ashton pleaded. "No more Immortals have to die here. We can work together."

"Unless we get rid of the Watchers, Immortals will always end up dying," Locke replied, pressing into full attack. A slash. A stinging whip of steel on steel and Ashton was pushed back into the shadows.

Ashton lunged forward, forcing Locke to place his weight on his as yet unhealed left leg, hearing him hiss in pain. Ashton suspected the last attack had cost Locke dearly in stamina. He could feel the victory. Taste it. Smell it in the damp, dark air.

Both blades struck exposed skin and came away bloodied. Locke flinched and retreated, but Ashton pressed the attack. The two blades careened sharply together, sparks exploding from the steel as Ashton forced three swift turns from Locke's longsword, his wrist rolling painfully with each movement. One more twist tore the sword from his numbed fingers, sending it skittering across the pavement, far out of reach.

Ashton brought his blade to Locke's throat, and paused, debating. He had given Siobhan O'Banian two warnings. Could he afford to be so lenient with Vincent Locke?

"Do it," hissed Locke, jaw clenched, eyes hard. "I don't intend to stop unless someone makes me."

Reluctantly, Ashton pulled back the katana for the final arc that would end Vincent Locke's life - when a scream cut through the night.

"Arrêt! L'arrêt ou moi appellera la police." (Stop! Stop or I'll call the police.)

Ashton checked his blade at the last second, the razor sharp edge whizzing by Locke's ear.

"It seems you have been lucky tonight," Ashton told him. "I don't think you'll be so lucky again."

From behind David Ashton came the sound of running feet. "Hé vous! Arrêtez-le! Laissez cet homme seul," a female voice called. (Hey, you! Stop it! Leave that man alone.)

Giving a quick glance over his shoulder, David Ashton slipped the katana beneath his coat and drifted off into the shadows.

Locke swallowed shallowly and sank to the ground, closing his eyes. That was as close to death as he ever wanted to come. Suddenly, he was aware of the smell of perfume and a body beside him.

"Monsieur? Monsieur? Êtes-vous bien? Avez-vous besoin de la police? Une ambulance? Oh mon Dieu, vous saignez." (Mister? Mister? Are you well? Do you need the police? An ambulance? Oh my God, you're bleeding.)

Vincent turned to the woman. "I'm afraid I don't speak French very well," he told her, hoping she understood English.

"Ah," she replied. "I asked if you were alright. If you needed an ambulance or the police. And I said you were blee..." She looked at his thigh and gasped. There had been a gaping slice in his flesh a minute ago. Now all that remained was a cut in his jeans and blood. She looked from the wound to Vincent's face.

"What in the hell happened?" she asked, face pale.

"I don't suppose you'd believe me if I told you I was a fast healer?'" Vincent replied, grimacing.


End file.
